Thread by @CATACLYSMICEVIE

It’s funny, he thinks, how time and pain can separate so many different paths—but in the end, they always lead you back to the same place.

The young man—the scholar, He Sheng, also known as He Xuan—he walks with his back straight, and his head held high.

Something stirs.

Deep in the recesses of Hua Cheng’s mind, a feeling—almost like a memory of something that he buried deep, but—

Hua Cheng closes his eyes, pushing that down.

She’s been more difficult to suppress, as of late—but he’s long since become accustomed to keeping her subdued.

The Civil Exams are held in a small, nondescript building in the city center, many studious, stern faced young students gathering together to write their essays in total silence, only the scribbles of pens against scrolls filling the air.

Hua Cheng watches from underneath the shroud of a glamor, leaning back against a pillar, boredom tinging his features, a dagger twirling between his fingers.

‘You’ve lost focus,’ a voice in his mind whispers—and his eyebrow pinches.

‘Push it down,’ he thinks to himself.

It’s easy when he’s focusing on the task at hand, watching as He Xuan hands off the exam scroll to one of the proctors, finishing earlier than any of the others—

And yet, he seems utterly calm about the entire matter, his expression smooth.

Like someone who knows his answers are completely correct—and that it won’t matter in the end.

Hua Cheng watches him bow to the instructors before leaving the room, the sun reaching high in the sky—and he sees to his end of things, following the instructors into the back.

He watches as the scroll the young scholar gave them is discarded, switched out with another before being placed into a pile of scrolls to be sent to the board for review, and…

Qin Meirong wasn’t wrong, it seems—there was wrong doing going on.

When the proctors leave the room, Hua Cheng is there, the glamor slowly shrinking from his form, lifting the scroll they just placed into the pile, and He Xuan’s, which they discarded—comparing the two.

One is well written, clearly a passing result, and the other…

Is Blank.

Hua Cheng doesn’t make mistakes often. Isn’t prone to such things. He’s meticulous, determined, and focused.

Well, he usually is.

So, he’s unaccustomed to making careless errors. Missteps that he’ll come to regret later.

“…What are you doing here?!”

The voice jars him.

Is a human…here? How did they enter without him noticing? But—

But when Hua Cheng turns his head, one of those proctors is there,standing in the doorway, and…

Hua Cheng isn’t wearing the face of a mischievous youth today, no:

His current form is something more sinister.

Far more reflective of his mood.

Tall, broad shouldered, dark eyes, sharp teeth—long nails. A shape he was wearing underneath a glamor, not expecting to be seen by any mortals, but now…

Now, there’s a tiny little human, trembling in the doorway, looking at him like…

Like he’s some sort of monster.

And typically, this is when Hua Cheng would sneer, throw his head back and make some mocking little speech to frighten the human into silence, but…

“Well,” he glances down at He Xuan’s scroll, annoyed. “…That’s a complication.”

“GUARDS—!”

Before the proctor can finish crying out, a scroll hits him in the temple with a sharp thunk!

His eyes go wide, and then he crumples to the floor, limp, while Hua Cheng rolls his eyes, spinning He Xuan’s scroll in between his fingertips.

Things just became…complicated.

When the guards do enter the room, they find proctor Mao Xue hunched over the exam table, gathering scrolls, his brow furrowed with irritation.

“Sir? You called?”

The young professor straightens, sending them a glare. “No thanks to you incompetent fools!”

The guards pause.

Mao Xue glares, hands resting on his hips as he turns around. He’s a short man, forced to crane his neck to level an annoyed stare at the guards, but he endeavors.

“Do you now how long it’s been since I called?!”

The guards fall silent, looking at one another.

“…We don’t—”

“Forty five seconds!” The professor snaps. “If there was truly an emergency, any ruffian could have had their way with me. And you call yourselves professionals!”

“Apologies, sir, we—!”

“You’re damn right you’re sorry!” Mao Xue huffs, snatching up the pile of scrolls.

“I was going to ask one of you imbeciles to deliver these scrolls to the board for me—but now it’s clear that I’ll have to do it myself!”

“Sir—!”

“Out of my way!”

They watch as Mao Xue storms past them, scrolls in hand, properly chagrined. But…

He was acting odd, wasn’t he?

In the time it takes for Hua Cheng to deliver the scroll to the examination board himself—He Xuan lingers in the marketplace, looking for a small gift for his bride-to-be.

A thank you, for everything she’s done in the last few years.

The weaver that once worked on this street has long since moved on—to where, He Xuan could not say, but a younger generation of artisans have taken up several of the patterns he was known for, weaving them into sashes, belts, and robes.

He stops to examine one sash in particular

Black thread, with gold threads making it look like waves cutting through the water. Like the sea at night.

It’s not the sort of thing Qin Meirong would ever buy for herself, but…Black has always been He Xuan’s color.

Such a small delay, one that barely takes up the afternoon.

But in the space of those few hours, He Xuan’s life changed—and he didn’t even know it.

On the walk home to his village—he has no idea that today won’t be like the others. The wind feels the same—the path is familiar. The taste of salt ever present in the air.

It felt…normal.

Sometimes, they say that you just know—instantly feel it, when something haas been taken from you. When you’ve lost something precious.

It wasn’t like that for him.

He didn’t know, not until he was standing on the path leading towards his family’s home, and…He saw his mother.

Kneeling in the grass in front of their home, her eyes streaked with tears, hands clutching at the earth in front of her, and…

For the first time, her gaze is just…

Empty.

That was the day, when He Xuan’s heart died.

A literal, physical feeling.

He felt it wasting away.

It would take longer for his mind to break and bend—that part of him has always been solid, rooted in the iron foundations that make up the core of who he is, but—

But He Xuan’s heart, it was gentle, back then. Before it was twisted and mangled into something else.

It cracked, when his mother told him that a group of men had come to their village, and that they had tried to take He Zhong. That crack deepened, when she explained how Qin Meirong tried to stop them—but—

In the end, they were both taken away.

That crack in his heart, it ached and stung with regret. Wondering why he hadn’t been there. Why he had delayed in returning from the city—

Why he had even bothered taking that damn test again to begin with, because why did it matter, now?

But oh, it was easy, when the pain in his heart was only a crack.

It widened into a chasm when he learned who took them. A wealthy family, one that owned nearly half of the village—formerly a side branch of the Shi’s, but later expelled for their constant indiscretions.

And what they had wanted A-Zhong, and later Qin Meirong, for?

Concubines.

Then, it felt as though his heart was split down the middle, the crack widening until it was nearly severed in two, a cold wind blowing through.

Because he knew—he knew that they would refuse.

Part of He Xuan wished that they wouldn’t—knowing that whatever the Sheung’s would do, it wouldn’t be worth refusal, it—

But when he arrived at the manor, prepared to fight for their freedom, the truth was worse than he could have imagined.

For so long, He Xuan was only a big brother. Only ever thought of ways to find his sister a better spot from which she could watch the parade for the fire festival. How to keep her safe. To always keep an eye, and never let go of her hand.

His heart shattered, when he found A-Zhong’s body.

Left out in the front courtyard—abandoned and discarded, still limp, not yet stiff.

Meaning that he was close. That if he’d just had more time, he could have stopped it. He could have…

‘I promise, I won’t drop you.’

‘I know you won’t!’

Her face was so small then, beaming up at him with such believe—such faith.

‘You’re amazing, gege!’

Now it’s drained of color, stained with blood—eyes staring up at him, cold and unseeing.

‘I’m your best friend, right?’

They’ll never shine gain.

‘Always!’

But the moment his heart died, was when he heard broken, fractured gasps—no, that isn’t what he would call them.

They were last breaths.

And there, beaten nearly beyond recognition, left alone in the cold, he found Qin Meirong.

Whimpering his name with bruised lips.

“H...He…X…Xuan…”

Reaching for him, even then—her limbs shattered and broken.

Then, He Xuan felt the remains of a heart that still beats—in defiance of all reason—begin to fade into ash.

As he held her in his arms, gently shushing her, trying to soothe her pain, but…

There was nothing left to be done.

The dark curls that once felt so smooth under his fingers were sticky and matted with blood.

The freckles he once compared to constellations now bloodstained.

But when those eyes looked up at him one last time—

They were still so warm.

“He X-Xuan,” she repeated his name, blood bubbling past her lips with every word she spoke, but still, when he tried to shush her—she pressed on, “I-It’s alright,” she whispered, her eyes turned over his shoulder, looking past him—at something he couldn’t see.

“S…she found me.”

Her lips pulled up into a faint, broken smile, “H-He was right…”

“I don’t…” He Xuan’s voice was nearly incapable of speech, “I don’t understand…”

Her breaths were rattling towards the end, broken ribs protesting each attempt at air—

But she clutched the front of his robes.

“You’re a g…good man,” Qin Meirong’s last words would never leave him, her eyes still so clear, even towards the end, staring up at him with a determined light, “Don’t….don’t let them…make you f-forget that, He Xuan…”

Oh, but he would.

For centuries, he would forget.

“You’re…a good man.”

The light and warmth faded from her eyes, all as he watched.

And in that moment, no heart remained within He Xuan’s chest.

Something was still there, still beating, but that wasn’t a heart.

That was an unfamiliar beast, no longer an accepted part of him.

When Qin Meirong left the world, she took He Xuan’s smile with her. Took his joy, his curiosity, and his kindness.

His hope, his faith, and his ambitions.

It would be centuries, before he would smile or laugh again, even reluctantly.

Centuries, before He Xuan would love again.

And when he did, it would come on the breath of the wind, swirling all around him, trying to stir those parts of him to life.

Oh, how He Xuan would resent that love. Fear and distrust it.

How he would deny it and do everything in his power to break it, to snuff it out.

Oh, the things He Xuan would do, all while telling himself that he no longer had a heart.

And god, the way it would break again, the next time he heard those words, from a very different set of lips—

‘You’re a good man, Ming…H-He Xuan.’

They would break him all over again.

Hua Cheng watches.

Not because he has no reason to interfere—he does. He had a fondness for that young woman, and was disgusted to learn what became of her, no—

He watches now, out of some morbid sense of fascination.

Because He Xuan doesn’t snap. Not immediately.

Even as Hua Cheng watches the murderers of his sister and fiancé drag him through the streets, cold and shattered, he just hangs limp in their arms, eyes dark and uncaring.

And at first, the ghost king thought the human had simply given up. But the longer he watches…

The more clear it becomes, that something is forcing the human to linger on.

Even as Hua Cheng can see it now, the heavy dark aura that lingers around the young man—so vile, it permeates the it around him—

It’s a curse.

A parasitic curse, latched deeply to the man’s soul.

Whispering hateful words to He Xuan, as the youth sits day in and day out, glaring at the blank walls of a dark, empty cell.

Wasting away from starvation, until he looks far closer to death than Hua Cheng ever has, alive or otherwise.

His face nearly skeletal, eyes sunken in.

And that voice whispers to him, all the while, that he will lose everything.

That he will die alone, in the cold. That he might as well die here.

He Xuan doesn’t—against all hope or reason, he lingers on, but Hua Cheng—he recognizes this curse for exactly what it is.

A Jinx Monster.

And slowly, as he watches it struggle and fight to feed off of He Xuan, who possesses little to no fear at this point, Hua Cheng realizes the truth behind what has happened. Slowly, then all at once.

After all—he didn’t tell Shi Wudu how to switch fates.

But that doesn’t mean that Hua Cheng wasn’t more than aware of how to do so himself.

The two of them share names, after all.

Even the same birthday.

History has an odd way of repeating itself, at times. No matter how hard you try to learn, and teach it’s lessons to others.

Because Hua Cheng warned him.

In so many different ways, that curses can be faced or they can be hidden from, but they can not be cast aside and forced onto another.

And now, he watches the bloody harvest of the sins that Shi Wudu has sewn.

Watches as He Xuan’s captors nearly starve him to death—and still, he does not die.

Watches, as the young man is released from jail—only to learn that his mother passed away from illness during his time in a cell, because no one was well enough to look after her.

And still, the young man doesn’t break.

He watches—with great interest—as He Xuan returns to his ailing father, too old and fragile now, to work on the ships he once helped build.

And even now, with his exams passed, when he must want to leave this village behind…

He stays—and he becomes a shipbuilder himself, starting a business. Small, at first, but…more and more successful, as time goes on.

After all—if there’s one thing He Xuan’s ships are known for…it’s that they don’t sink.

And, however briefly—he manages to thrive.

But it could never last. Not with that creature on his back—and not with the humans that linger in this place. Petty, angry, and jealous.

Hua Cheng watches, as they take everything he has. Over and over and over again.

But each time, He Xuan rises back up.

Over and over again.

Like the waves crashing back up after a storm, he surges with every downfall.

Hua Cheng almost pities the Jinx Monster, lingering on his back—desperately trying to feed off of the mortal, but…

He Xuan doesn’t face his problems with fear. Doesn’t hide from his curses.

Any lesser creature would have abandoned the hunt long ago, but…

Hua Cheng knows every creature and creation that has ever emerged from the Kilns of Zhao Beitong—

And he recognizes the Reverend of Empty Words for what it is.

Still, this human endures it against all reason.

Until he can’t.

Still, on the day that He Xuan snapped, there wasn’t fear.

Hua Cheng saw frustration, when the shipmaster saw that yet another one of his boats had been commandeered by the local clan leader.

Building anger, when the bank refused to extend his loan payments.

The final straw comes in the late afternoon, when he’s returning from work.

Gaunt, thin—a tall man, once a muscular youth—but he never quite recovered from the starvation he endured in prison.

Still alive, but he looks far more like a wraith.

And when he returns to his family home, he finds the last living relative he has—his father—has passed away.

Alone, sitting in a chair by the window, his head turned to look out.

Waiting for him to return home one last time. He Sheng, his pride and joy.

Always such a good son.

Hua Cheng watches the human, as he has for so long now—more attention than he’s paid to any mortal, in his time as a ghost.

He Xuan kneels by his father’s chair, holding one hand between his own. It’s gone stiff and cold by now.

His expression is unreadable—mouth unmoving.

He doesn’t cry. In all of the time since the deaths of He Zhong and Qin Meirong, Hua Cheng hasn’t seen the human shed a single tear.

But the expression on his face—the look in his eye as He Xuan looks upon his father one last time—

It’s one of deep respect and affection.

Hua Cheng can’t understand that feeling.

Doesn’t know the meaning of what it is to honor one’s father.

He never had one. Never had anything that came close.

He’s had a mother. In many ways, more than one.

That’s the only familial bond he’s ever known.

And now, watching this scene—the Ghost King finds himself almost…

Envious, in spite of it’s dreariness. The blatant horror of it all.

After some time, He Xuan rises to his feet once more, gently setting his father’s hand back down in his lap.

He Xuan’s walk back to town is slow, unhurried—and his request is so simple, so small, in the face of it all—

He just asks around in the local tavern, for someone to help him lay his father to rest.

There’s no other family to assist him—and it’s a difficult job for one person.

More than one of the local townspeople are willing to help. He Xuan is liked and respected by many in the village, as was his father before him, but…

The son of the local clan leader sneers, slamming his cup down on the bar counter, his eyes narrowed.

“Why should he need help?” The young man murmurs, arching one eyebrow.

He’s stereotypically handsome—but he’s also got a unique brand of cruelty in his eyes, the kind that can be recognized with a single glance.

“It should only take one man to bury a dog.”

A dog.

This is the heir to the Sheung family.

The same family that took his sister.

The same family that took Qin Meirong.

The same family that threw him in prison, and left him there to rot.

The same family that repeatedly commandeered his ships, leaving He Xuan drowning in debts.

The shipmaster doesn’t speak immediately—doesn’t react.

But there’s a flash in his eyes, and Hua Cheng sees a thread, worn so thin over the last few years, finally begin to snap.

No one will raise a hand to help now, fearing retribution from the young master of the Sheung clan.

That’s fine. That’s better, actually.

Hua Cheng watches He Xuan make the trek back to his home. Taking the axe that he (and his father before him) once used to build their ships, chopping wood from a nearby forest to make a pyre.

It’s careful, methodical—never hurried.

The young man burns his father’s body—gathers the ashes, and buries them in the family grave.

He’s buried a fiancé, a sister, a mother, and now his father.

He Xuan stands before the tombstone now, staring at his family, name, and it occurs to him.

Who is going to bury him?

There’s not going to be anyone left, he—

“You’re going to die alone,” a voice whispers next to his ear, cruel and jeering. “Alone in the cold, with no one left to mourn you.”

“…”

Hua Cheng watches with rapt attention as the youth stares down at the family grave, silent.

Finally, a smile spreads across his face.

Slow, lopsided. Not the muted, almost shy smiles that He Xuan showed the world as a child. Nor the quiet, confident grins he used to share with the girl that he loved.

There’s no trace of sanity in this smile.

“Is that so?” He whispers

Even the Reverend of Empty Words seems to balk at his reaction, falling silent a He Xuan turns away from the grave, axe still in hand.

“…I suppose there isn’t a point, then.” He mutters, dragging it on the ground beside him, the blade slowly cutting through blades of grass.

No one answers, but He Xuan seems to have developed some level of awareness that a creature is stalking him. Listening to his every word.

And he smiles even wider.

“In being someone worth mourning.”

Life is one long cascade of decisions and consequences.

Nearly four centuries ago, a gambler didn’t know when to stop rolling. A friend tried to save him with a set of loaded dice. A merchant reacted out of spite and anger.

Decades later, a young ghost saved the two men on a whim. Kept them from their fate for as long as he could.

And when they could no longer be held back, their curse fell on two bothers, one unwilling to let go of the other.

In his refusal to allow him to suffer, he cast that curse upon someone else.

Every single one of those decisions led to He Xuan lifting up his axe that night.

Not a single one of those decisions were his own.

But when he reaches town once more, his third time making the trek in a single day—he sees the lights.

Dozens of torches, flickering in the streets.

It’s—

It’s the fire festival, Just like every other year.

Not like the festivals he used to watch with A-Zhong, when he was a boy. He even took Qin Meirong back there one year, using the same trick he had with his little sister when they were children, sneaking them up to the rooftops.

That was the first time He Xuan kissed her.

She looked over at him, admitting that she wouldn’t have cared where they watched—as long as she got to watch them with him.

And in that moment—it seemed too difficult not to kiss her. Like keeping himself away was an act of physical restraint.

His heart pounded, back then.

Now, it’s nearly silent in his chest.

It doesn’t feel an ounce of remorse or anxiety as he walks through the crowds, dragging his axe behind him.

It’s almost as though he’s been dead for years now, and his body is the only one that hasn’t accepted the news, carrying him onward.

Slowly at first, then stumbling towards the front of the crowd, no one ever bothering to look too closely. After all, he’s just their neighbor. Their quiet, patient, ever enduring neighbor.

No one sees the look in his eye until the final moment—

Especially not his first victim.

The swing lands squarely on the back of the young man’s skull, splitting it open like a melon.

The heir to the house of Sheung isn’t dead by the time he hits the ground, eyes wide, mouth gaping with shock, pained moans escaping him.

Silenced with the next swing of the axe.

For a moment—no one moves. Everyone around is frozen with shock. The music stops, along with the chanting and singing.

Dozens of torches stand still, flickering in the night.

He Xuan stands over the corpse, his once tan face now pale, sunken in—splattered with blood.

There’s no loud declaration of rage, no elaborate, angry speech against those who have wronged him—no.

The shipmaster places his boot against young master Sheung’s chin, yanking the axe out of his chest without a word, stalking towards the bank.

No one stops him. Not a soul.

There was no family that suffered under the Sheungs quite like the Hes—but they have lorded over this village for several decades now.

And they have been greedy, selfish, no cruel.

The normal townsfolk watch, as the kind, bright eyed boy they once knew slaughters the bankers.

Some even begin to trail behind him, torches in hand, as He Xuan runs from one target to the next. And somehow, no matter how much they try to run away, no matter how desperately they try to defend themselves…

It all comes to nothing.

He Xuan moves like a man possessed.

When the handle on his axe breaks, he takes the splintered handle in his hand, driving it into the men who beat his fiancé to death over and over again—occasionally stopping to laugh, like he’s taunting some invisible presence that no one else can see.

Does he seem afraid, hmm?

When there’s nothing left of his axe handle, he takes up a knife from a nearby butcher stall, hacking until the tip of the blade brakes off in the heart of one of the men who stole from his father.

The night deepens, thunder rolling in as a storm rages over the sea.

But the storm in the village rages on, voices screaming out in the night as a dark, bloody figure darts through the night, ripping them apart with any weapon he can get his hands on.

Slowly, the other villagers begin to egg him on.

Some—some even start to cheer. To thank him.

There’s no sorrow, for the loss of a clan that had been tormenting the locals for an entire lifetime. No pity, as the townsfolk watch the Sheung’s reap what they have sowed.

Until finally, only the clan leader is left—scrambling backwards on his hands and knees, pleading.

One of his knees has already been smashed by the hammer clutched between the shipmaster’s fingers, blood dripping down his chin.

“L-look,” Lord Sheung stammers, his voice weak and trembling as he looks around the crowd, desperate for a single soul to help him.

They won’t.

“I have money—power, position—anything you desire, I can give it to you, just—!”

“Go back in time, then.” He Xuan replies flatly, speaking for the first time since he began his rampage—and his voice—

It’s cold, almost rational.

“Give me my family back, and I’ll let you go.”

“I…” Lord Sheung stares up at him, his lips trembling. “You know I can’t, that’s not possible—!”

He cuts himself off with a pained shriek when the young man takes his other knee, as well.

“Then it’s not possible for me to have mercy on you,” He Xuan sneers. “What a shame.”

This man cannot being his family back—and He Xuan cannot find it in him to show him mercy.

There’s no room inside of him for kindness, when he smashes the hammer into the man’s face, over and over again—until nothing recognizable remains.

Oh, the things He Xuan would do.

All while telling himself that he didn’t have a heart.

It died long ago.

He’s just waiting for his body to arch up.

There’s no instance to point to, of a human surviving a curse of a jinx monster.

He Xuan is no exception.

Yet, it isn’t the creature that brings him to an end.

Gravity does that.

When He Xuan is panting, soaked from the rain and the blood of his tormentors, hammer clutched loosely between his fingers.

He takes one staggering step back—not realizing that he was already standing on the ledge.

He Xuan had been standing on that ledge for a long time. Years, now. Never realizing that the cliffs lay behind him.

The villagers who watched the slaughter without a word try to help him now, but…

It’s too late.

They rush forward—and He Xuan plummets out of sight,

SPLASH!

Cold.

The thunder roars, and He Xuan sinks, eyes, just as dark and deep as the waters that grip him, staring up blankly.

It’s cold, and he’s alone.

Crushed under the weight of the waves, dragged further and further below—

Only darkness remains as air slips away.

The sea floor hits his back, the immense weight of the water crushing down on him, squeezing out whatever life remains.

For a moment—He Xuan almost prays to the water master for relief—

But he has no desire for that. And even if he did—

He Xuan’s prayers would go unanswered.

They always do.

And there isn’t fear in his last moments. There’s no sadness, self pity, or hopelessness.

Only rage remains. Deep and bitter, churning with the same ferocity as the waves overhead as his body dies, and the Reverend of Empty words goes without another meal.

He Xuan’s body lays against the sea floor, limp, eyes unseeing—illuminated by a pale, unearthly green light.

That of a ghost fire.

It hovers for a moment, a sole flickering point of color in the endless void of the ocean.

Then, it howls.

Shrieks into the darkness, unheard—sound cannot carry through water, after all.

And yet, the sea rises in response. Churning with violence, crashing into the ships that float near the harbor with renewed menace.

The sea swallows them whole, dragging them down into the abyss.

For years to come, people will remember the storm that swept through the coast that night, and the young man who raged beneath it.

The lives that were lost by land, underneath his blades—and the countless souls who were lost at sea.

Remembered as a night of tragedy. A night of justice. A night of revenge.

But what people remember the most, is the daunting height and size of the waves as they smashed massive cargo ships to bits.

It was a night of blood and death.

A night of black water sinking ships.

A ghost king stands on wet sand, watching the sea roil, arms crossed.

In the end, while his own actions indirectly caused this—there was nothing Hua Cheng could have done to prevent it.

Diverting the curse from He Xuan would have meant casting it back upon Shi Qingxuan.

Interfering with the Reverend of Empty Words without killing it would have simply made the curse worse than it was before. And if Hua Cheng /had/ destroyed the creature…

The debt created by Xiang and Fai’s deaths would have remained.

He knows all of this, and yet…

When he thinks back on a brave, clear eyed young woman, willing to bet her entire future on the man that she loved, so certain that he would be worth it…

Hua Cheng feels some small measure of remorse.

The storm doesn’t end. It only worsens, clouds darkening and swirling.

A typhoon is brewing, one that might sweep broad portions of the coastline away with it. At first, Hua Cheng thinks it’s odd—for the death of one spirit to cause such an uproar. But then…

Pain.

Sharp and stabbing, echoing throughout his skull as he sinks to his hands and knees

Like there’s a balloon swelling inside his skull—something that has long since been buried fighting to rip it’s way out.

The Ghost King’s fingers claw into wet sand, gritty texture sliding underneath his nails, biting his lip until it bleeds.

This isn’t just one spirit at all.

Somewhere, between the known and unknown, on the very edge of consciousness, lies a garden.

A calm place. A gentle place.

One where a young man sleeps in his father’s arms, listening as his mother tells ghost stories.

Where the youngest child stands behind his mother, braiding flowers into her hair, occasionally stopping to chase after butterflies—but always returning to her side.

Always.

This time, he stops in the middle of the clearing—sending her a tense look, one filled with worry.

His mother smiles, reaching for him with open arms, “What’s wrong, my love? Come back here.”

San Lang stands before her, unmoving, his expression rapt with concentration. “…You’re waking up,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Or…is it the…”

Oh.

For the first time in centuries, Hudie remembers that this is a dream. A beautiful dream. A merciful dream.

But still, a dream.

She turns her eyes to Zhang Wei, where he leans against a tree, watching his brothers, calmly playing the notes from his flute.

To Mei Nianqing, cradling Bolin in his arms, occasionally looking her way with a gentle smile and a warm gaze.

And finally, back to San Lang—watching her with a look of quiet frustration and sadness.

When she speaks again—it is not with the soft notes of Tonglu Hudie.

It is in the flat, matter of fact tone of Zhao Beitong.

“What was the first lesson you learned in the Kiln, child?”

Hua Cheng opens his mouth to respond—then winces, clutching a hand to his temple.

“…Pressure,” he finally mutters, his voice strained.

“What about it?”

“It…” Hua Cheng presses both hands to his temples, his skull pounding—realizing this is what she must have felt, when Mount Tonglu opened before. “It has to be…released…or else….”

A pressure relief valve. That was how she explained the existence of the Kiln to him.

Or else the entire system implodes, taking everything else down with it.

Even if Hua Cheng has absorbed Zhao Beitong’s consciousness into his own spirit, even if she can no longer take form on her own—

The Kiln will still open. The fields of Mount Tonglu will still call.

But now, the hammer—the tools to forge a new ghost king, or to bring it to ruin—

They lay within Hua Cheng’s hands.

“You will go,” Zhao Beitong murmurs, tilting her head back, looking up towards the night sky.

So many stars.

“Try and fight it as you might, you will go.”

And oh, how he does.

He returned to the gates of Ghost City. His butterflies continue their search across the continent for his love, finding nothing but dead ends.

The Ghost King watches gamblers from his throne, and he pretends that the world around him remains still.

Even as more and more ghosts flood to the fields of Mount Tonglu. Their screams and the raging battle carrying far and wide, howling towards a final confrontation.

In the years that follow, Hua Cheng hangs back—knowing, if he goes, what he will find waiting for him.

And yet, that pull remains.

‘So much waiting has made you tired,’ a voice whispers in his mind. ‘You’re retreating from the world.’

Hua Cheng denies it with scowls and sneers. Spends his days scouring reports, his nights, dreaming of his love in his arms.

He’s become far better at dreaming than he used to be.

The Xie Lian straddling his waist now is smiling, hair hanging all around them like a silk canopy as he leans over Hua Cheng, lips pressed against his forehead, his cheeks, before finally bringing their mouths together.

Every kiss Hua Cheng has ever dreamed of sharing with his god is based off of one memory, reframed over and over again, hundreds of times, until now, they feel so heart achingly familiar.

Until eventually—they frown against him.

“You’re unhappy again,” the prince whispers.

Hua Cheng’s fingers reach up, toying with the strands of Xie Lian’s hair that surround him, letting out a tired sigh.

“…I just miss you,” he mutters. It’s the same answer that he has always given, without fail.

But this time, his dream offers a slightly different reply.

“It was harder, today.” Xie Lian admits, his voice slightly weak. It startles the Ghost King, because that’s true, it /was/ harder today, but…

“There were so many things I wanted to talk to you about,” the god whispers, his voice unsteady.

Now, even Hua Cheng’s dreams sound distressed.

“…” He frowns, arms sliding around Xie Lian’s shoulders, pulling the prince down until he lays flat against Hua Cheng’s chest, head tucked underneath his chin. “You can always talk to me, dianxia,” he murmurs.

Xie Lian shivers.

“…I know,” he whispers, pressing his nose against the side of the Ghost King’s neck. “But I…”

It feels almost like a reluctant admission, one that stabs straight through Hua Cheng’s core.

“I get so /lonely/, Hong-er,” the god clings to him. “I’m trying, but…it’s hard.”

“I’ll come back,” Hua Cheng promises, his fingers tucking underneath Xie Lian’s chin, tilting his face up, pressing their foreheads together. “I’ll definitely come back, your highness.”

The god’s eyes remain closed, and his lips tremble.

“…Believe me,” the ghost pleads softly.

Something about that statement makes Xie Lian stiffen, his lips going still, eyebrows knitting together as he reaches for Hua Cheng’s face.

His fingertips stroke over his cheeks, and he whispers.

“Hong-er…are you…?”

Hua Cheng catches him by the wrist, his grip so gentle.

“Am I what?” He murmurs, pressing Xie Lian’s palm against his cheek.

It takes the god a moment to answer, his expression wracked with thought, and…

A voice echoes through the dream, reverberating in Hua Cheng’s head.

“This is the one lesson you never learned.”

Hua Cheng’s grip on Xie Lian’s wrist never tightens, and the kiss he presses agains this forehead is featherlight, so tender—

But when he speaks, his tone is dark with anger.

“Get out.”

It’s his dream. And he doesn’t want to share it.

“This is what you’ve been mourning.”

This time. Something he has no way of knowing if he ever could have had, and still, he aches for it.

“You turn your back on the world,” she murmurs, “and you say that it’s all for him.”

Hua Cheng’s arms tighten around Xie Lian, who frowns with confusion.

He just wants to dream

Just a little longer.

He can still remember his god saying that, the way his arms felt around Wu Ming’s neck, how it felt to be held so close, with Xie Lian whispering against his lips, pleading—

‘Just a little longer.’

But Zhao Beitong’s words echo now, striking a chord.

“This world is his future.”

The words cut deep. And—

They wouldn’t hurt so much if they weren’t true.

After all, was that not the reason that he chose to remain?

‘Because I still have someone precious in this world.’

In /this/ world.

“…I know,” he rasps, agonized.

Because he doesn’t want to wake up. Not quite yet. Just wants…

Just wants this moment to last a little bit longer.

“Hong-er,” The god frowns, clinging to his arms. “What’s—?”

The Ghost King opens his eyes, glaring at the red silks of the canopy above, arms splayed out.

He doesn’t know that, hundreds of miles away, a blind Taoist stirs in the night, fingers drifting up towards his lips.

Hua Cheng doesn’t know how badly it frustrates the fallen god, who can never even to remember his dreams as clearly as he would like.

They’re always present in the moments after he wakes up, flashing before his eyes like fireworks, but…They fade so quickly, leaving him with only vague recollections.

Hua Cheng doesn’t know how the prince shivers, curling in on himself, clutching the chain around his throat.

And the god doesn’t know that his dreams have shape and voice, that the creature who walks among them now crosses the paths of the continent, a journey he has walked once before…

But far more reluctantly this time, hesitant as the gates of Mount Tonglu loom before him.

They’ve been shut for three years now, locking millions of ghosts and spirits inside, dooming them to fight until only one remains.

For most, when the gates are shut, they become impassible.

As Hua Cheng stands there, a wraith butterfly returns to him, landing on his shoulder.

And he knows in that moment, before he takes a step forward—

The gates will open for him.

Groaning and creaking with protest, mountains of earth and stone stretch apart, making a path.

Beyond, lays a wasteland. A bloodbath.

Hua Cheng’s pace is slow, unhurried.

His boots make dull thuds against the rocks beneath his feet, audible under the roars and screams of the battles unfolding before him.

Fewer, in the end, than Hua Cheng expected.

The majority of the fields have already been picked clean of weaker prey, left barren and empty.

Of the savage ghosts that remain—all have already fled within the confines of the kiln, even if the mountain has not fully sealed itself.

Hua Cheng can remember a time when ghosts of similar caliber left him on the verge of utter destruction.

They seem like ants to him now.

When he came to this place—he did so unsure of what his intentions were.

On one hand—he knows what his Guoshi would have done, placed in his position.

Exactly what she had done twice before. What she had attempted to do to him:

Destroy whatever creation emerges as the victor.

After all, she would never allow herself to issue a half formed creation—

And she would never allow the creation of more ghost kings. Not ever the reign of Bai Wuxiang’s destruction.

Which begs the question—which will this be?

A misshapen, ill destined beast—

Or a Ghost King?

He approaches just on the final figure in the kiln descends on it’s last opponent, blood streaming from the figure’s jaw as he defeats—no, devours—the other savage ghost’s form.

Consumption isn’t common, even among ghosts. For the strength it requires, and…

For the memories.

You carry the weight of them with you, afterwards. Never quite able to shirk them in the years that follow, but…

The figure straightens—and in an instant, Hua Cheng recognizes that face.

Remembers the night the seas roared, and the sky screamed back.

And in the end—part of him wonders if this is what Zhao Beitong felt, when she watched him crashing back down from the heavens.

Not surprise, no. Hua Cheng isn’t shocked to find that He Xuan survived, or that he answered the call of the Kiln.

He’s seen what the man can endure.

Come to think of it, aside from one other—

Hua Cheng never spent that much time watching a human. And in this man’s case, it was out of sheer curiosity, to see how long it would take for him to break.

And now, seeing him here, the Ghost King feels almost…

Proud, oddly enough.

And resentful.

The savage ghost stands in the kiln, dark hair hanging around his face in a tangled mess, matted with blood, swaying in the breeze.

Hua Cheng’s memories of this place are muddled—but he remembers one thing:

He had to devour something he loved in order to escape.

It’s not a matter of whether or not he’s /willing/ to kill He Xuan.

If it was a choice between the younger ghost’s survival and his own, Hua Cheng would—without question.

And yet, Hua Cheng is resentful of the thought that such a life could come to utter waste.

That must have been what Zhao Beitong thought, watching him crash back down. He knows that now.

Because she knew what it would take, for the Kiln doors to shut.

And that once they did, only one of them would be coming back out.

Hua Cheng will always be the one to walk away.

He takes one step forward, watching He Xuan’s posture tense in response—seeming to sense what’s coming, but—

When the calamity’s hand comes into contact with the wall of the Kiln, his foot standing on the threshold, he stops.

He Xuan waits, trembling with anticipation, and…

Hua Cheng doesn’t move, one hand braced against the frame to the cavern, his eye wide—

Remembering.

/Thud./

His memories from the kiln have always been fragmented, disjointed.

One face was always missing. Completely erased.

One name always left blank.

/Thud./

‘IF YOU TELL ME, I CAN KILL HIM FOR YOU!’

Slowly, his vision hazy, unsteady—his eye drags upwards, just in time to see He Xuan running towards him, likely in an effort to strike first, while Crimson Rain is clearly distracted.

‘DON’T YOU THINK I’VE TRIED THAT ALREADY?!’

Hua Cheng’s fingers claw at the kiln door, his temples stabbing with the memories rushing before his mind’s eye.

A garden filled with flowers.

A butterfly, pinned in a gilded box.

A young man, plunging into darkness.

And one man, standing at the center of it all.

Jun Wu.

A voice snarls in his mind, baring it’s fangs.

‘He cursed me.’

Hua Cheng knows so much more now, about the world, than he did when he first walked free from the bowels of the Kiln.

His lips curl back into a snarl, and he whispers.

“He cursed him.”

The rage is immeasurable.

‘HE USED ME!’

Used her, shattered her, then told her the cracks he placed in Hudie’s heart were of her own making. Her own shortcomings and failings.

When Hua Cheng told Zhao Beitong of the death of Bai Wuxiang, she laughed—shrieking—

‘He only knows one trick, doesn’t he?’

She had meant the masks—the tricks. Taking credit for saving the day, when he was the cause of danger in the first place.

But ever since Hudie’s fall from grace, Jun Wu has been playing the same trick, over and over again.

Forcing people to make impossible choices.

Between losing what they love, and doing nothing.

Between drowning in their own grief, and taking revenge.

And he always punishes them for choosing wrong.

Over the years, Hua Cheng has learned to treasure self determination above all else. The freedom to choose his own path.

And now, he’s remembering the stories of the Crown Prince’s second banishment—and understanding what the Heavenly Emperor truly did.

He stole Xie Lian’s freedom.

Hua Cheng’s god walked back into the cage willingly. Offered his neck up for the shackle with no resistance.

Because Jun Wu made him think that he deserved it. Make Xie Lian think the punishment was earned.

And when Hua Cheng leaves this place—he’ll forget again.

Suddenly, the crazed fits rage Zhao Beitong displayed before seem completely rational.

For a moment, it feels hopeless.

But Hua Cheng has faced hopeless situations before. Has dealt with problems that have always seemed as though they didn’t have an answer.

He turned his back on heaven, after all. He has looked death on the face—and he has said no.

And after a moment—he begins to think.

He Xuan stands before him, ready to strike—and it only takes a simple flick of Hua Cheng’s wrist to send him flying, slamming into the far wall of the kiln, the cavern rumbling in protest from the force of it.

Even if Hua Cheng could walk away from here with his memories intact—

He couldn’t deal with Jun Wu. Not with the way things are now. As strong as Hua Cheng might be…

He’s dealing with someone that doesn’t play fair. Who will always get the upper hand when you fight him one on one, so…

Hua Cheng takes a step back over the threshold of the Kiln.

So, the key must be not facing him alone.

Hua Cheng won’t next time.

He’ll consider it a lesson learned.

‘What are you—?’

His palm presses against the door of the Kin, sealing He Xuan in once more.

Seemingly alone.

/BOOOM!/

The doors to the kiln slam shut.

When He Xuan wakes again—it’s inside of a cavern.

The walls and ceilings are a pure shade of white. And the inside—it’s impossibly vast.

It takes him a moment to realize that he has company—standing in the very middle, his body tensing in response.

A woman.

Wearing silks of black, red, and gold.

Her hands remain clasped behind here, shoulders thrown back.

“…What is this?” He snaps, wiping the blood from his chin as he rises up onto his knees.

She doesn’t answer, head tilted back, speaking to something He Xuan cannot see.

A hammer trembles between his fingertips as he stalks forward, eyes narrowed.

He’s come too far, to be stopped here.

Again, he snarls—

“What IS THIS?!”

After a moment, the stranger finally answers, her posture ever unchanging.

“…This is my home.”

He Xuan staggers slightly, clutching the side of his head, one hand pressing his weapon against the wall of the kiln, fighting to steady himself.

“…Crimson Rain…” He Xuan spits, his eyes narrowed. “Where did he go?”

He knows the Ghost King by description. Everyone does.

The woman turns her head towards the sealed gates of the kiln, hair spilling over her shoulders as she does so.

“…The Kiln would not close without me inside,” she explain, her eyebrows tense. “But if he entered, he would be forced to kill you in order to survive.”

Her eyes flash as she turns back to face him. “Of course, he assumes that I’ll allow you to live.”

A silvery flash of light flickers past her ear, the ghost’s eyes flashing red. “Precocious little brat.”

“Who are you?” He Xuan glares, watching the butterfly as it drifts closer.

“And what do you have to do with this place?!”

“…” The female ghost draws herself up to her full height, wiping a hand down her face. “I am Zhao Beitong. And Hua Cheng set me free to…” She looks He Xuan up and down, “…Deal with you.”

The water demon glares.

“Please, don’t hide your displeasure with the inconvenience on my account,” he hisses, his voice snide.

Zhao Beitong raises an eyebrow. “I wasn’t.”

She reaches and, seemingly out of thin air, draws a blade. It gleams the same shade of silver as the butterflies that flock to her

It’s long, wickedly sharp—and then He Xuan watches it change shape between her fingertips, like it’s fluid—made from rays of pure energy—twisting and bending until it forms a spear.

Satisfied, she lunges—clicking her tongue with displeasure when He Xuan barely manages to parry.

“Sloppy,” she mutters, twisting the pole arm expertly, sliding it between He Xuan’s hammer and his body, forcing the water demon to open his stance as he retreats, arms spread—and that’s when she stabs forward with the end of the spear, piercing He Xuan between his ribs.

He snarls with pain, dropping down and rolling to get away from her, blood dripping sluggishly from his wounds—and when he rolls onto his hands and knees, panting, Zhao Beitong stands tall, the spear spinning lazily between her fingertips.

“Your reflexes aren’t terrible,”

She mutters, circling him like a lioness that has pinned down her prey, eyes burning against the glaring light of the kiln, footsteps echoing against the cavern walls. “But you’re no trained fighter.”

He could be, given time. There’s natural talent.

“…But you’re no San Lang,” she mutters under her breath, shaking her head.

He Xuan forces himself to his feet, spitting blood out onto white marble. “Who?”

Rather than answer his question, Zhao Beitong poses one of her own, her spear shifting into a scimitar.

Almost familiar.

She flips it into a revers grip, the circumference of the circle she’s pacing ever shrinking as she closes in on the water ghost.

“…Or maybe he knew that I wouldn’t let you win,” Zhao Beitong mutters, her brow furrowed.

After all, he knows her better than anyone.

Which would mean that Hua Cheng saw something in this creature that made him think that He Xuan was capable of surviving her.

The thought of that makes her lip curl into a snarl.

Tonglu Hudie birthed three sons.

Lost them all—and while one survived, she had to let him go.

Zhao Beitong forged three ghost kings.

Lost the first two—though in the end, it was the last one that ended up losing her.

She sees no need to forge another.

And yet.

The Goddess of the Kiln watches He Xuan use spiritual energy to heal his wound, his gaze sharp. Calculating.

No, he isn’t a prodigy in battle. Not like Hua Cheng.

But she can’t say there’s no glimmer of potential, either.

She watches the water demon run through countless scenarios in his mind—settling on the fact that, for now, direct combat is the only option.

He isn’t a fool.

The two charge toward one another, weapons raised—his hammer, hardly what she would call a fine spiritual tool, but wielded with such ferocity—clashing against her blade of spiritual energy with a great—

/CLANG!/

And then, there is no kiln.

No shrieking.

No wraith butterflies

He Xuan stands on a rooftop, overlooking a city.

The sun is just now starting to set, making the bay look like a sea of liquid flame, matching the long path of torches that light up the streets below.

He remembers this place.

His fingertips twitch by his sides, eyes wide.

This is—

“Gege!” A voice calls from behind him, and the water demon stops—his eyes wide, filled with emotions he had long forgotten how to feel. “You got us the best seats ever!”

“…” He Sheng doesn’t move at first, his lips trembling—like he doesn’t know whether to enjoy the memory, or to resent the fact that he’s being forced to remember what he lost.

And yet, the boy can’t stop himself from turning around, a small smile on his face.

“You like it?”

A-Zhong beams up at him, her eyes sparkling with happiness.

He forgot how happy they were that day, in the years that followed.

“I love it—you’re really amazing, you know that?”

“…” He Sheng’s smile is slightly lopsided as he kneels down, resting one hand on top of her head.

“…I’m only amazing because I want to make your life special,” he admits, ruffling her hair.

A-Zhong’s expression doesn’t change, smiling up at him happily, and He Sheng’s mouth trembles at the corners.

“I’m sorry that I didn’t—”

“She won’t answer, you know.” A voice calls out

He Sheng stiffens, not looking away from A-Zhong’s face as Zhao Beitong’s voice grows closer, pointing out the truth in a calm, almost distant manner.

“Because that isn’t what you said that day,” the ghost explains. “It’s what you wish you had said but you never did.”

A regret that he had for many years, after her death.

The words he often left unsaid growing up out of some misplaced sense of sheepishness. It all seems so foolish now, but…

He Sheng grits his teeth, his shoulders hunched.

“…Get lost,” he mutters. “It isn’t your business.”

Zhao Beitong’s smile is bitter, but bracing—knowing what will come next.

“Oh,” the ghost mutters, shaking her head. “You have no idea, boy.”

Of course—he charges her, and when he does, the memory goes black.

No kiln, no fire festival. No ghost kings, no younger sisters.

He Xuan rises to his feet once more, this time—standing in what seems to be a workshop.

Shelves of raw ore, finished blades—leather gloves cast aside here and there. The smell of soot and hot iron.

And the repeated sounds of a hammer slamming down.

/CLANG!/

/CLANG!/

/CLANG!/

It’s a dance that has played out before.

Many times.

The boy turned scholar, then murderer—and then a savage ghost, the water demon He Xuan—

He watches as a bladesmith is turned to a Guoshi, then a princess, to a Queen, and finally—

The Goddess of the Kiln, Zhao Beitong.

The threads of their memories intertwine and knot together, flashes of scenes passing before their eyes.

Two children, walking down autumn paths, hand in hand.

A garden of butterflies—and then one sealed and pinned inside a gilded box.

He Xuan is quicker than her last pupil to understand the purpose of this exercise—

After all, he’s devoured many souls himself before.

Life left him with an endless hunger. Consuming is what he knows, now.

They’re chasing one another towards the end—and the victor will survive

But he also knows that—in spite of his own victories on the fields of Mount Tonglu—and Zhao Beitong’s severely weakened state—

He’s no match. Not in the ways of combat. Not right now.

But He Xuan is no fool—and he’s always been aware of his own weaknesses.

As such, he’s more than aware of his own strengths.

Now, he stands at the edge of his own memories.

On the edge of a cliff—a bloody hammer in one hand, the black waters of a wrathful sea churning below.

But there’s a missing piece to this. A gap in the record.

“…Why did you let him go?” He Xuan mutters. He isn’t exactly asking Zhao Beitong—he knows the answer already.

Hua Cheng tricked her. Soothed her with her own memories as she was devoured, then left her remains there to enjoy the dream until the end.

But there’s more to it.

While He Xuan was watching, taking in someone else’s life, he saw more than just Tonglu Hudie, or the monstrous creature that she would become.

He saw her memories of the Crimson Ghost as well.

Before he was the scourge of the heavens. The Crimson Rain Sought Flower.

The Ghost King, Hua Cheng.

He Xuan knows—maybe Hua Cheng was powerful enough—or even clever enough—to trick her. But to contain her entirely?

No.

He was a merely a deadbolt in front of a door that would always be thrown open. That’s why they’re here again, now.

But why is always the primary question, ringing in He Xuan’s skull like a gong. It always has been, all of his life.

Why, why, why.

When he was small, he would ask himself why he was so blessed—and as he grew, what he had done to deserve such ill fortune.

He’s still asking now, even if the circumstances have changed.

Why, why, why.

But now, he knows why. It’s right there in front of him.

“…You think he can kill Jun Wu,” He Xuan mutters, rain pelting his bloodstained cheeks.

Thunder roars, the sea churns—and her eyes flash.

But Hua Cheng has made no actions towards the Heavenly Emperor in his time since his ascension as a Ghost King. There’s the famed duel with Thirty Three heavenly officials, but no one knows /why/ Hua Cheng did that, or why generals Xuan Zhen and Nan Yang were spared.

A few of the officials on that list were rather respected members of heavenly society—but their downfall didn’t weaken the heavens as a whole. It only embarrassed the heavenly court, in the end.

One could argue that Hua Cheng is biding his time. Building his power..

And he has. There’s no sense in denying that. Crimson Rain is well known as the most powerful creature in the Ghost Realm. That isn’t in dispute.

His wealth puts even the most indulgent monarchies to shame.

But still, his spiritual power cannot rival that of Jun Wu.

Even if it did—He Xuan has also learned the conditions of the curse by now. Hua Cheng forgets the truth of the Heavenly Emperor’s identity when he leaves. How could he fulfill her wishes, in that case?

It places his actions—as well as that of Zhao Beitong—in a new perspective.

Just as the spirit rushes towards him, prepared to shove him off the cliff side, to end his memories and devour him, He Xuan mutters something under his breath.

“He needs me.”

Zhao Beitong stops, her claws inches from his throat.

Slowly, He Xuan meets her gaze.

“He needs me.”

When he repeats the words, he says them with even more conviction—his eyes burning brighter than they have in years.

Since the heart in his chest began to beat like a useless instrument, disloyal to the body it was meant to propel.

“Why do you think that he needs me?”

The Ghost is stopped before him, the violets and reds of her eyes burning like twin alchemical flames, threatening to burn him to ash—

But He Xuan isn’t afraid.

“You haven’t figured that part out yet,” he murmurs, a wry smile twisting his lips, “Have you?”

Her fingers seal around his throat just then, lips parted into an irritated snarl.

“You think you can condescend to ME, child?”

He dangles over the edge now, the black waters churning below.

He Xuan’s expression remains unchanged.

He told a god something once. Many years ago.

“I can figure it out, if you let me,” he murmurs, dark hair hugging his cheeks wetly, eyes burning an unnatural shade of blue against the night. “I’m good at that sort of thing.”

Zhao Beitong’s eyes narrow sharply.

‘I can fix it, if you let me.’

Back then, life was so simple.

‘I’m good at fixing things.’

“…If you still have no idea, why should I believe you can find an answer now?” She glares, her voice lowered to a hiss.

“Oh, I have figured something out,” He Xuan shakes his head. “I just don’t know the context.”

“By all means, please SHARE!”

She snarls, squeezing him tighter.

Instead of flailing, or reacting with discomfort, He Xuan simply lifts his chin, looking towards the skies. Watching as the clouds darken and churn.

“The heavens are my enemy as well,” the scholar explains, “I just don’t know why yet.”

“…And I’m supposed to expect you to figure that out?” She glares, nails digging into his skin. Her words filled with venom, eyes with distrust.

“Open the gates,” He Xuan murmurs. “If I fail, you can destroy us both—can’t you?”

Zhao Beitong doesn’t seem as confident about that.

Her power has long since been divided, with Hua Cheng absorbing her stores of spiritual power over time—and building up his own massive reserves.

He isn’t the savage ghost that he was when they met.

It would be a fair fight this time.

Perhaps He Xuan could tip the scales.

That presumes that he would attack the Ghost King, instead of both of them turning on her, but…

When she looks up into the water demon’s eyes, she knows;

They both want their answers.

The last time the doors of the Kiln slammed shut, it took two years for them to open again.

Now, the gates reopen after only a matter of weeks.

Weeks that Hua Cheng spent waiting, his palm pressed against the gates, allowing the spirit that has long been contained within his own soul to temper the water demon He Xuan into something that would suit his own needs.

But when he looks into the cavern—he doesn’t see Zhao Beitong feasting on He Xuan’s remains.

Or He Xuan, risen as a newly formed Ghost King.

He sees the two standing side by side—

And a gleaming silver whip clutched between Zhao Beitong’s fingers.

Hua Cheng arches an eyebrow.

He steps back into the chamber, hands clasped behind his back, his scimitar gleaming at his hip.

“It seems like you two made friends,” he comments, glancing back and forth between the two of them.

He Xuan carries no weapon.

He lifts his hands, pulling his hair up.

His mother always used to chide him for allowing it to fall in his face, explaining that it would be harder for him to concentrate that way.

Now, he ties it up over his head in a high, neat ponytail.

‘See?’

He watches the Ghost King with a keen eye.

‘That’s better, isn’t it?’

Ultimately, he knows that Zhao Beitong won’t harm Hua Cheng, her affection for the ghost is deep—almost maternal.

But even a mother will raise her hand to her son, on occasion.

That gives him time.

“Keep him occupied,” He Xuan mutters, rolling up the sleeves of his robe.

The goddess rolls her eyes, cracking the whip between her fingers, wraith butterflies beginning to pour from the ceiling of the kiln.

“Weren’t you paying attention before?” She replies, the end of the weapon curling around Hua Cheng’s ankle—

Dragging him back inside the Kiln.

“Keeping men occupied is what I do.”

The scimitar E-Ming comes hurling out of it’s sheath, crashing against the line of the whip until it shatters, only to be reformed into a blade of matching power, the two clashing as hordes of Wraith Butterflies tear through the kiln.

CLANG!

The clouds of spiritual energy rip at one another as two of the most powerful beings to ever walk the earth clash, the air roaring with power.

Among it, He Xuan is a paper ship in a hurricane, tossed around by the current.

His fingers clutch at the walls of the Kiln.

He refuses to be swallowed whole by it now.

Even when the force of the blows becomes to powerful, it knocks him off his feet—

Each time, He Xuan repeats what he has always done.

He rises back up, like the waves returning to the shore after a storm.

Rushing forward like a willful tide—just as Hua Cheng clashes with Zhao Beitong in another blow, struggling to suppress her, the water demon’s hands collide with his back.

And they fall back into the path of the Kiln.

There’s no brilliant white cavern. No clash of blades.

When He Xuan opens his eyes again, he hears screaming.

/DIANXIA!/

/DIANXIA!/

/DIANXIA!/

He rises to his feet, standing in the middle of a crowd, flowers pouring down from every direction—

Now, he sees him.

A golden masked figure, moving like a painting brought to life.

Then the screaming as the crowd begins to see a red figure plunging from the sky, crashing towards the ground.

It’s only when the Crown Prince catches the boy, his mask slipping from his face, that He Xuan realizes that he’s seen the man before.

The weaver.

The blind Taoist.

The Greatest of all of the Martial deities, the Crown Prince who Pleased the Gods, cradling the child that would become the wrath of hell, King of Ghosts, the Crimson Rain Sought Flower in his arms.

It’s a flashpoint—an intersection of two fates, changed forever by one encounter

One act of kindness.

He Xuan watches the memories fly past—never lifting a hand to protest as Crimson Rain’s mind flickers through his own.

There’s a moment, when the Ghost King’s gaze flashes over He Xuan’s memories of Qin Meirong, when the water demon almost protests.

But instead, he straightens his spine from his usual slouch, throwing his shoulders back, hands clasped behind him.

After all, he’s here with questions of his own, walking a quiet path deeper into the Ghost King’s mind.

Hua Cheng keeps replaying one of He Xuan’s memories.

Over and over again, like a gambler that doesn’t know when to stop throwing his dice, even if he ends up with snake eyes over and over again.

He stands in a market, watching a white robed cultivator speak with a child clad in dark robes.

Smiling and laughing.

Watches the way that the blind Taoist fiddles with a silver chain around his neck as he speaks, thanking the local boy for fixing his loom.

Hua Cheng hasn’t seen his love since that day.

His last memory of Xie Lian’s face are of tear stained cheeks and frightened screams.

‘You promised you would never lie to me.’

Oh, how the crown prince wept on the day that Wu Ming left this world, leaving only a white blossom and dark blade behind.

Hua Cheng kneels before his figure now, fingertips trembling as they stroke the memory’s cheek, eyes wide.

He’s always been so beautiful.

It’s not that Hua Cheng has ever forgotten this. That would be impossible. But he’s been a ghost, mourning for centuries, clutching onto a limited reel of memories, looking over the same images of Xie Lian’s face over and over again.

In that time, the god almost ceased to be a living, breathing thing to him. He became a treasured memory, something that Hua Cheng would prefer to lose himself in, over and over again, as the world moved on around him, often forgetting—

Xie Lian was still living in this world.

All these years, even if Hua Cheng couldn’t see him, couldn’t find him—Xie Lian was still smiling and laughing with children, offering them encouragement. Even giving little He Sheng his own dinner.

‘You turn your back on this world—and you tell yourself it’s all for his sake.’

Xie Lian watches as He Sheng runs off, a quiet, happy smile on his face—fingertips still toying with the silver chain around his neck.

‘But this world is his future.’

Centuries ago, a god clutched Hong-er’s ashes and wept, apologizing, over and over again.

“I’m sorry!”

He Xuan stands inside that memory now, watching as a broken idol weeps beneath the rain, his head covered by a bamboo hat—clutching a smooth black stone against his chest.

“Hong-er—I’m so sorry!”

Inside someone else’s memories, Hua Cheng whispers the same thing.

“I’m sorry.”

His hands cradle Xie Lian’s face, wishing he could speak to his god again.

Never before has the child prayed with the expectation of an answer, but god, how desperate he is for his love to look on his face one last time.

To hear his voice when he speaks, and give him an answer.

He Xuan listens as Xie Lian hunches over on himself, making a solemn oath:

“I won’t do it again. I won’t—I won’t ever give up again!”

Centuries separated, with a different voice, a different body, a different name—the oath is repeated.

“I won’t do it again,” he whispers.

Hua Cheng doesn’t remember the moment his faith began to waver. Not in Xie Lian—never in him.

But in himself.

In his ability to find his god again. To protect him.

Somewhere in the last three and a half centuries, doubt began to creep in.

“I won’t doubt myself,” he mutters.

“Not ever again.”

Xie Lian doesn’t turn his head, doesn’t look at him, his smile unchanging.

After all—this isn’t Hua Cheng’s memory.

That’s where He Xuan stands now, diving deeper—and there, he finds it.

The answer to the question he’s been asking all his life:

Why.

Before him, stands a little girl.

Dressed in green and white silks, warm brown locks of hair bulled back and away from her face, dimples in her cheeks as she smiles up at the Ghost King.

Silly and ignorant, but it makes her seem almost fearless.

“What’s your name, little one?”

“Shi—!” She starts, then chokes, pretending to hack for a moment on her snack, turning around, curls bouncing all around her. “Shhhheeesh, this is good!” The child mutters, wiping at her mouth.

“It’s Mingxia!”

Liar, He Xuan things, watching her face.

Such a terrible liar.

Still, he follows after them, watching what an odd pair that they make—a Ghost King (in disguise, but still fearsome) and a small child, skipping, a sweet treat in her hands, chattering off countless questions.

Why is this memory so important, he wonders.

Why would she lie?

It isn’t until a face rounds the corner, that He Xuan begins to understand.

Like a weight settling in his gut, as his eyes settle on the visage of a man that he’s met before.

Young—younger than when He Xuan saw him.

Rich and handsome.

The Water Master, Shi Wudu.

‘…You.’

That’s all that He Xuan can think, watching the Water Master snatch his younger sister up into his arms, his eyes narrowed.

“What’s going on here?”

‘It was you.’

He stands in the background, a footnote in his own demise as Shi Wudu explains the curse that haunts his family.

‘You took everything from me.’

A parasitic being, cast on them many centuries ago—one that won’t unlatch from Shi Qingxuan until he’s dead.

A jinx monster.

Oh, how He Xuan knows such beings very well.

All his life, He Xuan has been repeating one question, over and over:

Why?

Why was he born so special?

Why did fate seem to turn against him so suddenly?

Why did his sister and lover have to die?

Why were so many always standing in his way?

Why couldn’t he Rest In Peace?

Why is he here, now?

And here, in this one moment, the truth comes to light.

When He Xuan watches Shi Wudu ask Hua Cheng if he can trick the monster again—make it latch onto someone else. If then, they could finally be free of it.

“That wouldn’t work.”

He Xuan’s future, his fate—it wasn’t lost, or broken.

“You can run from a curse, or you can face it.”

His hands ball into fists at his is sides, trembling.

“But you can’t cast it off onto someone else.”

He Xuan’s future, his family, his life—they were stolen away from him.

“Not without bringing it back down on yourself in a far worse form.”

That’s what this is.

That’s why He Xuan is here.

He watches Shi Wudu’s ascension through Hua Cheng’s eyes, the rise of his younger brother along with him—

And with his own, He Xuan watches himself fall.

Now, with old questions finally answered, he begins to find himself asking a new one:

Why?

Why was Shi Wudu’s younger sibling more important than his own?

Why would he look upon a life, an entire family, and think that he had the right to push them off the cliff in order to save himself? Simply because he had the power to do so?

And why would the heavens accept that?

He Xuan stops, looking towards the sky.

The cruel, blank, unfeeling sky—always looking down on the suffering of the world, never offering any kindness in response.

After watching the rise and fall of the Crown Prince of Wuyong—He Xuan thinks he knows why.

Jun Wu isn’t a fool.

He saw two young men—He Xuan and Shi Wudu, and saw that both had the power to ascend.

That both would be powerful, fearsome gods in their own right.

Jun Wu is always clever. Generous, when he wants to be. Self aggrandizing—

And an excellent liar.

But he’s also a coward.

Someone must have told Shi Wudu how to switch fates at one point or another. A mortal wouldn’t have known. And if a ghost had done so, Hua Cheng would have learned of it.

Meaning it must have been a god.

A god that would have then had the new Water Master under his thumb.

And in doing so, it would have stopped He Xuan from ascending.

He Xuan, who has always been too clever for his own good. Always the first to reach the answer—

And set in his ways.

He Xuan was a good man, once. In the days when he still had a heart beating in his chest.

He would have learned the truth eventually, if he had been allowed to rise to the heavens. And he wouldn’t have been susceptible to bribery or blackmail.

Jun Wu has allowed very few gods to approach his level of power, in the last millennia.

Xie Lian was cast down for it.

They make excuses now. Speak of the heavens interference, how cruel and malevolent the backlash of fate can be—

But now, looking through Zhao Beitong’s memories—that was all a lie.

A cruel, insidious lie.

The universe didn’t unleash Bai Wuxiang on the people of Xianle.

Jun Wu did.

The universe didn’t place a cursed shackle in the god’s eyes.

Jun Wu did.

The universe didn’t write the rules of the heavens.

Jun Wu did.

And when a young, compassionate god threatened those rules—and in doing so, Jun Wu’s power—

Jun Wu attempted to break him.

The only martial god in the heavenly court that comes close to Jun Wu in strength while retaining any level of independence is General Ming Guang.

But he’s so wholemindedly focused on his own desires, Pei Ming is hardly a threat to political structures of the heavens.

It’s almost reminiscent of Hua Cheng, in a way.

Two immensely powerful beings with very different callings—and yet, both of them seem to be protected from the Heavenly Emperor’s wrath that way.

“…I understand,” He Xuan mutters, watching a little boy play in a courtyard.

Giggling without a care in the world—not knowing the cruelty of his own fate, or the suffering that would be incurred to spare him from it.

Oh, how He Xuan hates him in this moment. Hates his joy, his silly little smiles and laughs.

Hates him because he wants A-Zhong back.

Because he wants Qin Meirong in his arms once more.

But even then, there was a seed in He Xuan’s chest.

Some small, nearly forgotten part of him that knows the truth.

That ignorance and guilt are not the same.

That you can’t damn someone who never had a choice.

But that decision doesn’t lay before him now—and it won’t. Not for centuries to come.

For now, the Ghost King stirs upon hearing his voice, his head whipping to the side, finally looking away from Xie Lian’s face.

“…What?” He questions, rising to his feet.

The memory warps.

He Xuan watches as the courtyard begins to fade and collapse around him, taking Shi Qingxuan’s laughter with it.

The water demon almost mourns the sound, but…

They’ll see each other again.

He’ll see to that.

“…I understand!” He Xuan calls out, charging towards the barrier.

The vision before him shatters like glass—and once again, he’s standing in the cavern of the kiln, between a clash of two titans.

Blood drips down Hua Cheng’s cheek, a deep cut underneath his eye—while Zhao Beitong spits blood onto the ground, clutching her ribs.

“When we walk out of here—I’ll forget about Jun Wu,” the water demon explains, rubbing his temple. “I’ll forget about what he did to both of you, but—!” He holds up a trembling finger, pointing at his chest. “I won’t forget that the Heavens are my enemy.”

Zhao Beitong pauses.

Because He Xuan won’t forget what Shi Wudu did to him.

Or that, in spite of his crimes, Jun Wu allowed him to ascend anyway.

“I know myself,” the water demon continues, pounding his fist against his chest for emphasis. “I’ll get close to them—I’ll get revenge.”

He takes a staggering step closer to both of them, his gaze fierce.

Now, finally, this half baked whelp of a Ghost King is beginning to remind Zhao Beitong of her San Lang. An echo of him.

Potential.

“The Water Master is the closest to Jun Wu of all of the gods.”

He Xuan looks to Hua Cheng for confirmation—and even now, despite his irritation with having his memories scoured, the Ghost King nods.

Not in scales of power, no.

But the Heavenly Emperor trusts the Water Master, and favors him heavily.

Humans take this as a sign of fortune.

Pray to the Water Master, among the most powerful of the Gods. He can bring you wealth, good luck—even fertility, according to some.

Within the heavenly court, however—there are rumors. As there always are, when a god is favored in such an obvious way.

That the two share a relationship in private that might be very different than what is shown to the public.

Such rumors might have flown around about Xie Lian, if he had remained in the heavens long enough—but Hua Cheng can attest—

He rose through skill and power alone.

Shi Wudu, however, is no Crown Prince of Xianle. Talented and illustrious as he might be—he should not have risen so far so quickly.

In his case, there’s a chance there might be truth to such rumors.

Particularly when you consider the secrets the two already share.

“It will put me close to him,” He Xuan mutters. “I might learn the truth on my own that way, or—” He glances between Hua Cheng and Zhao Beitong, “—put me in the position to help carry out a plan in the future.”

“…A plan,” Hua Cheng repeats, crossing his arms.

Zhao Beitong presses her palm against the side of her head, thinking, and…

After a moment, He Xuan stares at the two ghosts, his jaw hanging open in abject shock.

“…You two really don’t have a plan for dealing with him?”

“I do,” Hua Cheng starts, only to be interrupted.

“Does that plan extend further than finding Xie Lian?”

The Ghost King shuts his mouth, and the answer is right there:

Any and all of his plans: absolutely none of them extend further than finding and pleasing his god.

Zhao Beitong shrugs, rubbing the back of her neck.

“I made many plans, in the beginning,” she mutters. “None of them ever seemed to work.”

“…Well,” He Xuan heaves out a sigh, crossing his arms. “I can help you fix that.”

He’s always been good at fixing things, after all.

“We’re not lacking in intelligence,” Hua Cheng glares.

“It’s impossible to plan for something that you forget the moment you leave this place.”

His method of counteracting that has always been assuming that in the end, finding and supporting Xie Lian, working to free him of his shackles—those actions would place him in Jun Wu’s path

Not so different from what He Xuan himself just described in his trek towards revenge. How is that any better?

“Yes—but in this moment—we all remember.” He Xuan points towards the walls of the Kiln. “Within this space—his curses hold no power.”

He looks to Hua Cheng.

“Hong-er.”

The Ghost King freezes, his pupils dilating, and He Xuan shrugs, looking back up at the cavern ceiling.

“I can say that name here, but when I leave, I’ll probably forget.”

The truth of it hits heavily, but Hua Cheng has been living with the weight of it for a while.

“But—that also means that if Jun Wu is going to die—it’ll be here.” He Xuan continues. “So, if we already have a plan in place by the time we converge here again, we’ll remember—and already know what to do.”

“That requires information that we don’t have,” Zhao Beitong frowns.

“We don’t know if Jun Wu would ever be foolish enough to come here, knowing that—and we don’t know what the circumstances would be. That’s why the curse has worked for this long.”

And it’s horribly, cruelly effective.

He Xuan already knows this.

“Right,” He agrees.

“But your memories proved something,” he murmurs, glancing around at the walls of the Kiln before pointing to Zhao Beitong. “He isn’t invincible.”

Her eyes widen slightly, and the scholar repeats—

“How many times did you cut him with Zhu Xin?”

A hundred. She counted them all.

“He wasn’t as powerful then as he is now,” He Xuan concedes. “But neither were you.”

Both of them are creatures that have built up immeasurable stores of power over so many years on earth.

“Why were you able to cut him, back then?”

“…I surprised him,” Zhao Beitong admits.

Zhao Beitong is a builder. A long tested blade master. She builds things. Creates. Maybe if she had questioned life more—she wouldn’t have ended up on this path.

Hua Cheng is a survivor. Sharpened instincts, bare desires—lingering on despite all else, with incomparable strength.

But instinct isn’t the same as analyzing.

He Xuan is also a builder. And a survivor. But he’s more than that.

He’s a scholar.

“What if,” he mutters, still looking at the ceiling. “We knew something that he didn’t?”

The other two ghosts stare at him.

“…How?” Hua Cheng murmurs, watching him intently. Zhao Beitong wasn’t as eager to believe in the young ghost’s capability before, but after watching his memories…

Even she seems willing to listen.

“…You said this place was your home,” He Xuan glances over at her.

“But you aren’t the Kiln itself.” He points towards the exit, which now lies open, and the other three mountains that frame the hills of Mount Tonglu. “The other Guoshi, their spirits form those hills—but this mountain, it was here before you were even born.”

“…That’s right.”

Zhao Beitong agrees.

“…There was something that you didn’t see,” He Xuan murmurs, glancing around. “The Volcano exploding—it was never a natural disaster.”

Her expression falters.

“In all of recorded history, has there ever been another eruption like it?”

There hasn’t.

“…You think it was…resentment?” Zhao Beitong mutters, her eyes wide, trying to take that in.

In the end, that’s still another form of natural disaster—and even less preventable.

“A release of pressure, sure—but it also did something else, didn’t it?” He Xuan points out.

Zhao Beitong grows pale—but Hua Cheng is beginning to understand where this is going.

“…A calamity,” Hua Cheng mutters. “It led to the birth of the first Calamity.”

Bai Wuxiang.

“Does that really change anything?” Zhao Beitong’s fists hang by her sides, tightly clenched.

He Xuan smiles back at her. He looks so young in that moment, his eyes bright as he tackles a problem. “It changes everything, Guoshi Tonglu,” he replies, pressing his palm against the wall of the Kiln. “Because this place existed before you—but you’ve been able to control it.”

He stops in the middle of the cavern. “I’m willing to bet that this place—it’s actually just a nexus point for positive and negative energy. When it falls out of balance—pressure builds, and the Kiln releases it. But it doesn’t have a consciousness, so…” He Xuan trails off.

“Whichever spirit has the most resentful energy—they control the path of the Kiln. There was likely a time when that was Bai Wuxiang, but I doubt he realized it then.”

Oh.

Zhao Beitong smiles, her expression filled with bitterness.

How that must haunt him now, huh?

Knowing that he could have stopped his own downfall, if he hadn’t been so blinded by arrogance and greed to see what was going on around him.

She’s glad to know that.

“Then, it was you. And now…” He glances toward Hua Cheng. “You.”

After all—the Kiln was open until he came.

“…How does that help us?” The Ghost King sighs. “Bai Wuxiang was a calamity himself. Jun Wu likely already knows that I’m in control of the Kiln now, if that’s the case.”

“Because,” He Xuan taps his foot against the cave floor, “this place has more than one function.”

After all—it’s a natural geographic point where spiritual energy—negative spiritual energy, resentment, pools.

“We’re able to look inside each other’s memories.” He continues. “But not before we commit the act of consumption. You saw Zhao Beitong’s life BEFORE you defeated her.”

“…And what difference does that make?” Hua Cheng frowns.

“You know what I’m talking about,” He Xuan murmurs, watching Zhao Beitong.

After all—they both have a history of consuming other Ghosts.

And accessing consciousness and memories—that comes after, not before.

“This place,” He Xuan glances around, “I’m willing to bet it’s connected to the chamber where you found your friends. The room with the two doors?”

Hua Cheng’s face suddenly pales with understanding.

The Kiln itself—it’s a connection between the human realm, and something else.

“You can lie about your memories, bury them, forget things—but not here.” He Xuan taps his foot again, clearly closing in on his point. “You both assumed that what you were experiencing was a connection between your minds, but it wasn’t. It was the Kiln.”

“How does that help?!”

Zhao Beitong snaps. “So, so what if it’s just some weird cosmic quirk that’s allowing us to see one another’s memories—what does that have to do with Jun Wu?!”

“Because—the Kiln lets you look back,” He Xuan whips around to look at her “Theoretically—you could look forward, too.”

He kneels down, looking at the Kiln floor.

“…Well,” the goddess scoffs, turning away—arms crossed. “Divining my future didn’t exactly work out well for me.”

He Xuan’s palm presses flat against the marble. “This isn’t fortune telling,” he murmurs. “It won’t be like that.”

Hua Cheng watches him closely, taking a step closer to his figure. “…If that was possible, wouldn’t Jun Wu have already done it?”

“I doubt he’s put much thought into what this place actually is,” He Xuan replies. “He just uses it for his needs, then forgets about it.”

Zhao Beitong snorts derisively, have under her breath.

Sounds like him.

“And whatever we do see—the Kiln’s magic is tied to it’s geography. We’ll forget when we leave.” He Xuan mutters. “But when we return—we’ll know something he doesn’t, and we’ll have a plan.”

“…What future is it going to show us, exactly?” Hua Cheng kneels down beside him, watching him intently.

They almost look like brothers, huddled together like that.

In any other situation, it might have made Zhao Beitong smile.

“Our futures. The Kiln’s future. Who knows.”

He Xuan shrugs. “You’re the one in control of it. I’m just going to agitate it into action.”

Hua Cheng takes a moment to process that, watching as He Xuan pulls back his fist.

“…You’re going to what?” He asks flatly.

Just in time to watch He Xuan’s fist slam down.

It plummets into the floor of the Kiln with all of his strength—which isn’t negligible, in this situation—and the marble—

A crack runs through it.

“…What is he doing?” Zhao Beitong questions, her eyes widening.

“Agitating…” Hua Cheng starts, then stops.

/BOOM!/

He Xuan’s fist slams down again—and Hua Cheng watches the crack grow and fracture.

Hua Cheng glances up at the goddess, and—

For a moment, he looks so young, offering her an apologetic smile, tipping his head to the side.

“…I didn’t think this through,” he admits.

Zhao Beitong’s eyes widen, vexed as she takes a step back, gripping the wall of the Kiln.

Which is for the best—her spirit is severely weakened, and whatever this is—

Hua Cheng suspects he and He Xuan are the only ones meant to move forward. Her story is already written.

But theirs is far from over.

“…Relax,” Hua Cheng drawls, trying to sound confident—even as He Xuan slams his fist down again.

/BOOM!/

“Whatever it is—I’ll deal with it.”

He always does, after all.

The Kiln begins to groan, walls roaring and vibrating in protest.

Waiting.

“…” Hua Cheng grits his teeth, pressing his hand against the crack, feeling it thrum beneath his fingertips.

A living, breathing thing.

Waiting for him, to tell it what to do.

The Ghost King squeezes his eyes shut.

“…SHOW ME!” He roars, his voice filling the chamber.

Just like that—the floor beneath them shatters, sending both ghosts tumbling into the abyss below.

And for a moment, there is nothing.

No Zhao Beitong. No planning. No Kiln. Just darkness.

But when Hua Cheng opens his eyes again, he sits up, confused.

Because this is the Kiln.

He recognizes the white walls. The vast, almost endless height to the ceilings.

But Zhao Beitong isn’t there—and the floor that He Xuan just shattered—it’s completely intact beneath them.

“…Great.” He mutters, sitting up and crossing his arms.

“You broke it.”

He Xuan rolls his eyes, sitting up beside him, brushing off his arms. “I didn’t break anything.”

“Well, this isn’t how it’s supposed to work,” Hua Cheng mutters, shaking his head. “You broke it.”

“I didn’t!”

“You—”

/BOOM!/

They both fall silent, watching.

Then, there’s a voice—one that Hua Cheng knows far too well.

He’s been following it all his life.

“SAN LANG?!”

He Xuan watches the Ghost King go completely still, his eyes widening.

How…does he know that name—?

A figure crashes down onto the floor of the Kiln.

Dressed in white cultivator’s robes. Long, heart wrenchingly perfect waves of dark brown hair pooling around him.

For a moment, Hua Cheng can’t move—can’t breathe as he watches his god rise to his feet, brushing himself off—glancing around blindly.

“…San Lang?” He calls again.

Somehow, in his heart—Hua Cheng knows.

Xie Lian is calling him.

The ghost staggers to his feet without thinking—not an ounce of hesitation as he rushes to the god’s side.

“I’m here,” he answers, clinging to Xie Lian’s hand—as he has so many times before. “I’m right here!”

But Xie Lian doesn’t look at him—doesn’t answer him.

His fingers don’t even move in response to Hua Cheng’s grip.

“Dianxia,” he tries, squeezing tighter, reaching up to cup Xie Lian’s cheek, stroking his thumb over his chin, nearly frantic. “Please, love—just look at me.”

But he never does.

“He can’t answer you,” He Xuan mutters, rising to his feet. “We can’t touch this, we can only watch.”

Because this—

Hua Cheng looks around, finally understanding.

This is the Kiln’s future.

Suddenly, Xie Lian jerks away from him.

“WHO IS IT?!”

Hua Cheng almost (stupidly) answers that it’s him again, but before he can—there’s another voice.

Coming from another white clad silhouette, facing away from him.

Quietly, it replies—

“You know who I am.”

“…” Hua Cheng’s lips tear into a snarl, at the sight of that mask.

Xie Lian doesn’t need to see it to know what it is.

Half laughing, half crying.

“…SAN LANG!” He blurts out again, scrambling backwards, and Hua Cheng’s heart aches.

Does this mean he’ll fail again, even after he finds him?

Is that his future?

“There’s no need to shout.”

Bai Wuxiang’s voice is as calm as ever as he walks through the kiln, gripping a staff in his hand. “It’s just you and me here. No one else will come—the Kiln is sealed.”

Hua Cheng watches Xie Lian’s grip on Fangxin tighten, lifting the sword up, pointing it directly at him.

“Where is he?” The god snarls, his voice unafraid—not for himself. “Where is he right now?”

“He’s gone,” the calamity replies simply.

Hua Cheng’s stomach drops as Xie Lian’s face falls.

‘I’m not,’ he thinks desperately, watching the prince’s lips tremble. ‘I’m right here!’

“What’s that supposed to mean?!”

“He doesn’t believe in you anymore. Dead. He left. What do you think?”

Hua Cheng watches Xie Lian’s face briefly contort with fear, and his heart aches.

Never.

He reaches for the chain around Xie Lian’s neck, feeling the ring there.

I would never—

Then, the god’s expression contorts with rage.

“STOP YOUR NONSENSE!” He shouts, lunging, thrusting the sword towards Bai Wuxiang’s chest. “SAN LANG WOULD NEVER LEAVE ME!”

Hua Cheng freezes, watching with wide eyes.

‘Hong-er would NEVER leave me!’

Does he…?

Bai Wuxiang laughs, parrying the blow with ease. “Alright, alright—I’ve sent him outside the Kiln. But even if he does arrive—it’ll be too late.”

Hua Cheng’s eyes never leave Xie Lian’s face, caught on those words.

‘San Lang would never leave me.’

…Does he know?

Hua Cheng’s heart makes a home in his throat as he watches Xie Lian’s every move, pounding needlessly.

“It’s better that he doesn’t see this,” the white clothed calamity continues, stalking towards him. “Even if he doesn’t realize it now—he won’t want to see the state of you.”

Hua Cheng’s lips peel back into a snarl as he tries to step in front of Xie Lian protectively, unable to defy his instincts, even if he knows it’s useless.

“Who knows if he’ll still want to be with you.”

In the background, He Xuan rolls his eyes.

“Something tells me he will.”

Hua Cheng whips his head around to glare at him, his eye narrowed with annoyance—and it does take a toll on the seriousness of the moment, when he snarls—

“Shut the fuck UP!”

Before the water demon can respond, Xie Lian shouts—well—

The same thing.

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

The god flies towards Bai Wuxiang, attacking him in a fury. “WHAT DO YOU WANT?! WHY DO YOU KEEP CLINGING TO ME?!”

Bai Wuxiang dodges every single attack—and it only seems to infuriate the god even more.

“WHY HAVEN’T YOU DIED?! WHY DID YOU COME HERE?!”

And then…

“Because you’re here.”

That’s the answer, Hua Cheng realizes, watching as the two clash.

“…What do you mean?”

“Because you’ve come,” Bai Wuxiang replies. “So, I’ve come too.”

Why, if Jun Wu knew just how dangerous this place was, would he return?

It’s really that simple.

Hua Cheng stares with disbelief.

He’s really that obsessed? He—

He would come to the most dangerous place on earth for him, just to torment Xie Lian?

He truly loathes the god that much?

Hua Cheng looks to He Xuan, opening his mouth, but—

Then the air is pierced with a shriek

“AAAAAAAIIEEEEEEEEEE!”

Both ghosts stop, clutching their ears, and—

Just like that, the scene shatters, and Hua Cheng and He Xuan are left tumbling through darkness.

“WE DIDN’T—!” Hua Cheng shouts, his arms flailing, “WE DIDN’T SEE ENOUGH!”

“No SHIT!” He Xuan cries.

“You’re the one that’s supposed to be CONTROLLING IT!”

Right.

Hua Cheng squeezes his eyes shut, holding his hands out.

The energy pulsing around him is so immense, so vast, it’s nearly impossible to fathom.

It feels like the first time he made the sky rain blood—but stronger.

Still, he tries. Stretches out with his hands, fighting with everything he has.

“…Show me,” he whispers, opening his eyes.

The void isn’t empty, like it always has been before.

Lighting the way…are butterflies. Silvery light casting his face in a gentle glow.

One of them lands on his fingers, wings flapping gently.

Tonglu Hudie used to have a recurring thought, over and over again. Hua Cheng has heard it many times over.

That a soul is a butterfly.

But really—

A soul is a wish.

“…Show me,” Hua Cheng speaks again—firmly now.

Finally, the scene changes.

Hua Cheng and He Xuan watch, standing over a fiery pit of lava and inferno.

Watch as a small group take on the greatest threat the world has likely known until now—Jun Wu.

Among them being Xie Lian, his two idiotic former friends, Hua Cheng, and…

To his shock, Mei Nianqing.

“…I can’t believe you destroyed my lair,” He Xuan grumbles, his arms crossed.

“I didn’t destroy it,” Hua Cheng corrects him, his eyes never leaving the scene. “And apparently, you owe me money.”

He Xuan grimaces.

“A lot of money.”

“I get it!”

The two of them watch the battle unfold—and Hua Cheng waits, to see if there’s some special trick or weakness, something that betrays the truth behind Jun Wu’s downfall, but—

The answer, once again—is simple.

He Xuan watches as Hua Cheng’s future self embraces the god.

His jaw hangs open as he takes in the sight of the cursed shackles shattering, feels the overwhelming surge of spiritual power crashing through the place.

More than Zhao Beitong’s. More than Hua Cheng’s. More—

More than /Jun Wu’s./

/Thud./

The very earth seems to rattle.

When Xie Lian’s eyes open—there are no shackles.

They burn a pure shade of gold, from purple to the edge of his cornea, like the sunrise itself has been swallowed up by them.

And with each step he takes, the earth shakes.

He Xuan watches with mild terror, Hua Cheng with awe.

“…Well,” the water demon mutters, watching as the God and the Heavenly emperor clash again—and this time—

With Jun Wu clearly losing.

“We know how to surprise him, now.”

After all—there’s no reason Jun Wu would think that Hua Cheng would know how to shatter a cursed shackle.

But as they watch—it becomes clear that such an action comes with a heavy price.

As the crown prince clings to Hua Cheng’s fading form, weeping.

“…Even knowing it would end this way,” He Xuan mutters, his gaze slightly narrowed. “Would you still do it?”

The Ghost King smiles.

“Without hesitation,” he answers easily.

He Xuan stares at him like he’s lost his mind, but Hua Cheng doesn’t seem particularly worried, his eyes fixed on the chain around Xie Lian’s neck.

The ring still intact.

“I’ll definitely come back,” the Ghost King murmurs.

No matter what. He’ll always come back.

He Xuan almost seems jealous in that moment—of the faith that Hua Cheng has. Not only in his god, but—

In himself.

The scene begins to crumble away again, and He Xuan glances back toward the Ghost King, raising an eyebrow.

“Taking us out?”

After all—this is what they came here to see. There’s no reason to remain any longer.

“…” Hua Cheng shakes his head, watching as the images collapse around them. “This isn’t me.”

He reaches out with his hand, and he’s about to call them back—or try to, when—

Everything shatters, and they both plummet into darkness.

And they fall for a /long/ time, far into the future.

Too far, Hua Cheng thinks, his arms flailing out, trying to find something to grasp onto, hair whipping around his face.

“PULL US OUT!”

“I’M—TRYING!”

Finally, they land on the ground—hard.

Hua Cheng’s head aches and pounds as he rolls onto his side coughing out smoke.

He doesn’t know how this happened—or what brought them here, but it wasn’t him.

“Where…” He Xuan sits up first, rubbing his temple. “Where is this place?”

The air around them is completely dark, but it’s difficult to tell if it’s actually nighttime or not—

Not when the smoke overhead is so thick that it blocks out the entire sky.

The earth around them is dry, crumbling, and barren.

When Hua Cheng sits up, he can make out the shape of trees, their limbs stripped and lifeless.

There’s nothing here. Only resentment and death.

Hua Cheng can hear as much, the moans of hateful spirits groaning in the distance.

“…I think…this is still Wuyong,” he mutters.

He Xuan staggers to his feet, looking around, trying to see the shape of the kiln, but…

There’s nothing like that.

Black stone spires rise into the air, almost reminiscent of volcanic rock, but…

No Mount Tonglu.

“…If that’s true, where’s the Kiln?” He Xuan whispers.

Hua Cheng brushes the ash off of the front of his robes, looking around, “…Nothing lasts forever,” he admits. “Maybe this is a time when the Kiln as we know it no longer exists.”

Disturbing to imagine, as the resentment remains.

Now, He Xuan Realizes—

This isn’t smoke.

The black fog that hangs around them, that blocks out the very sky itself—

It’s pure resentful energy.

“…If you didn’t bring us here,” He Xuan mutters, his chin tilted back, “…what did?”

Hua Cheng doesn’t have an actual answer, but before he can reply—notes pierce the air.

Not screaming, thundering, or shaking, but music.

A shrill, petrifying song—and yet, somehow—it’s beautiful.

And familiar.

The sound—

He Xuan stiffens beside him, and Hua Cheng feels himself go tense.

It’s the sound of a flute.

A vague memory tugs at his mind sharply.

Something Zhao Beitong saw once, when she looked into the future, trying to save the lives of her people—and her son.

That one day, the doors of hell would open, and when they did…

He Xuan sways, his eyes sliding out of focus.

…It would be to the call of a flute.

“…Don’t listen,” Hua Cheng mutters, whipping around, clapping his hands over the water demon’s ears. “Look at me!” He snarls.

He Xuan’s eyes snap back to him, wary in their confusion, filled with a slight haze.

“Don’t listen!” Hua Cheng repeats, and, out of desperation—

He slaps He Xuan across the face—hard. So hard, the younger man’s head whips out the side sharply, bones cracking.

But it does seem to do the trick.

“W…what the FUCK is that?!”

“…” Hua Cheng turns his head, glancing back towards the sound, his eyes narrowed.

“Something you aren’t strong enough to deal with,” he mutters.

But whatever it is—it isn’t powerful enough to effect a Ghost King.

Not yet, anyway.

Hua Cheng reaches out, wrapping his fingers around the clouds of smoke, gripping the resentful energy between his hands.

And he tries, in that moment, to drag them backwards.

To some extent, it does work.

The scene shifts—and this time, they aren’t plummeting downwards, but floating up—almost like pages of a book, being flicked a few chapters back.

But not all the way back.

/THUD!/

Hua Cheng lands first, on a hard, rock surface—only for He Xuan to come plunging down on top of him as he tries to raise him onto his hands and knees, sending him sprawling again.

“You are SHIT at this…” He Xuan groans in pain, and Hua Cheng snarls in response.

“Get off. Now.”

“Fine,” the water demon grumbles, rolling off of him. “It’s not like you haven’t already broken every bone in my body.”

Finally, Hua Cheng sits up, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t,” he huffs. “And apparently, you owe me money,” he reminds He Xuan.

“Lots of money.”

“In the future!” He Xuan whines, flicking his hair back over his shoulder as he glances around, “You can’t give me grief about it yet.”

Hua Cheng grumbles, resting his head between his knees for a moment.

Is this what it’s supposed to be like, having younger siblings?

They do nothing but smart off, complain, borrow money, then whine when you remind them of it?

In that case, he’s grateful to have always been an only child.

“…I was right,” He Xuan finally comments, crossing his arms—sounding pleased with himself.

“Good for you.”

Hua Cheng mutters, not even bothering to ask what he means, until—

“I knew the two were connected.”

“…” Finally, the Ghost King actually forces himself to look around, and when he does…

He sees a familiar chamber, one made of all black marble.

Vast. Daunting in it’s size.

On either end of the chamber stand two doors, one black, one red.

And all around them…

The familiar light of green ghost fires.

Hua Cheng has been here many times before.

But now…

He couldn’t tell you where they stand in the timeline. They still have to go further back—

Both fall silent, however, when something different happens.

This is a place of diverging paths. Where souls move from one point in the cycle to the next. Hua Cheng has seen it all.

He’s seen people move on. He’s seen them plunge down into hell—even when they didn’t deserve it.

He couldn’t tell you how many children he’s helped pass through the red door over the years, guiding them into reincarnation. Before it was their time, but it was the only merciful path left to them.

And it was always horribly unfair.

He was the first one to forge a new path.

To roll a set of dice, opening a new door.

To look the hall of death in the face, and say no—it wasn’t his time yet.

And now, he watches as a new path forms.

/SCREEEEEACH!/

Hua Cheng watches, his breath caught, as the black door opens.

For the first time, from the inside.

And of all of the things he was expecting—

He wasn’t expecting a teenager to come stumbling out.

Clothes torn, covered with soot and blood, long, dark hair falling half loose from a ponytail, pouring over his shoulders.

He lands on his hands and knees, coughing up dark matter.

And this time, when he looks up—he looks directly at the two Ghosts, his eyes wide and petrified.

The irises are a light shade of gray, slightly tinged with purple. Bloodshot now.

And it takes Hua Cheng a moment to realize, but—

Clearly, the child can see them.

His first reaction is to flinch back from the sight of the two ghosts, scrambling backwards, his frame trembling like a leaf, but…

Eventually, his back hits the cavern wall, his eyes never leaving Hua Cheng’s, and…There’s understanding, that there’s no malice between them.

Once that becomes clear—after a moment, his voice broken and hoarse—

(But that doesn’t seem to be the true reason for why it’s so difficult for the youth to say the words)

—he croaks,

“…Help.”

Hua Cheng and He Xuan remain frozen at first, unsure, and the boy’s lips quiver.

“…Please,” he mumbles, deeply ashamed of asking at all, “h-help!”

He Xuan meets Hua Cheng’s gaze, unsure if there’s anything they can do, given the circumstances, but…

The Ghost King rises to his feet, crossing the chamber in slow, non-threatening steps—bells chiming.

It takes the boy a moment to realize where the noise is coming from, eyes flickering around in a startled panic—and that’s when he notices the silver bells attached to Hua Cheng’s boots, rattling gently as he walks.

For some reason, the sight makes the young cultivator smile.

Hua Cheng kneels before the boy, reaching for the outer robe he was wearing before.

Silk fading from black to gray, with red designs trailing from the ends of the sleeves.

He throws it around the young man’s shoulders, shielding his shredded clothes and bare skin from the air.

The boy clutches it around his shoulders, shivering, curled up into a ball against the wall.

“…Thank you,” he whispers—clearly unaccustomed to such kindness—and Hua Cheng realizes something.

This kid—

He has a heartbeat.

Pounding in the air, the sound filling his ears.

“…You’re alive?” The ghost King mutters, his expression aghast, and—

The boy seems just as shocked as he is, clutching the robe even tighter around him, knuckles white.

“…I am?” He croaks.

From behind him, He Xuan seems just as baffled.

“How is that possible?”

The young man flinches at the sound of another voice, glaring uncertainly in He Xuan’s direction—and Hua Cheng shrugs.

“I don’t know. But you hear it, don’t you?”

The heartbeat. The breathing. Sounds of life that are far too organic to be faked.

Finally, Hua Cheng looks back to the teenager—who sits back against the wall, his kneels pulled back against his chest.

Eyes wide and crazed, clearly pulling deep into himself as a response to trauma.

And, given where he just came from, the Ghost King can’t blame him.

“How old are you?”

“…Seventeen,” the boy mutters, wiping at his face with his forearm, clearly trying to clean himself—but his entire body is so filthy, it’s of no use.

“And your name?”

Now, he seems reluctant to answer, and Hua Cheng sighs.

“…You’re a cultivator, right?”

The boy nods, and Hua Cheng continues, “Which clan do you cultivate under?”

Those eyes stare up at him, wide and distrustful.

Hua Cheng knows that look.

It comes from a lifetime of foul treatment.

The look of a child that is acutely aware of the fact that they are unloved.

“…Lan,” he mutters, hugging himself a little tighter before looking away.

“…” Hua Cheng sits back on his heels, folding his arms around his knees. “You’re a pretty good liar.”

The teenager makes the mistake of looking flattered, and the ghost smirks.

“But not that good.”

“…” He huffs, blowing his bangs out of his face. “…I did live with them for a long time. My—” He starts, then stops, his eyebrows furrowed. “My…”

He notices Hua Cheng watching him closely, and the tips of his ears flush sheepishly.

“…There are people who are important to me, in the Lan Clan.” He finally mutters, looking pointedly in the opposite direction.

“I’ve never heard of them,” Hua Cheng admits, leaving the teenager gawking at him.

“Do you live under a rock?!”

“As far as you’re concerned?”

He Xuan shrugs, covering his mouth as he yawns. It’s been a long few weeks, after all. “We might as well.”

The teenager casts him a distrustful look, shrinking slightly behind Hua Cheng’s figure—but the other Ghost is still rather patients.

“But you don’t cultivate under them.”

“…I cultivated under the Jiangs,” the boy finally admits, hugging himself a little tighter. “…But most of them are gone, now.”

Hua Cheng’s lips slowly turn into a frown.

“…I’m sorry to hear that,” he murmurs. “I was friends with a former Jiang sect leader, once.”

That seems to put the boy slightly more at ease with him, his eyes slightly less combative. “…Really?”

“Centuries ago,” Hua Cheng shrugs, “but yes.”

“…” The young man sniffs, looking back towards the black door—the one he just came from. “…What is that place?”

Without thinking, Hua Cheng blurts out—

“The shit hole.”

The cultivator’s eyes widen slightly, “…What?”

“…” Hua Cheng snorts, shaking his head. “Sorry—someone called it that once. The…closest thing to a mortal term for it would be Hell.”

The boy doesn’t seem surprised.

“How did you manage to open the door, anyway?” He Xuan questions, watching the human with a slightly suspicious gaze.

Slowly, the boy lifts seeming that’s been clutched between his fingers all this time—but somehow, in all of the chaos, the Ghosts didn’t notice until now:

A flute.

Made from sleek black wood, gleaming under the lights—and there’s a wickedness to it that even seems to make E-Ming tremble in it’s scabbard.

He Xuan scrambles backwards, clearly put off by the sight of it, after what they heard before.

Finally, the boy stands up.

His hair hangs loose around his shoulders now, slipping completely free of the red ribbon that once kept it up and away from his face.

He looks unkempt now—like a man facing his own execution.

Hua Cheng catches it before it reaches the ground, offering it to the young man.

“…” The teenager drops his chin, staring down at the hair ribbon—before eventually reaching back, using it to pull some of his hair back from his face, still leaving most of it loose and low. “…Thank you,” he murmurs, looking Hua Cheng in the eye. “For this, and the robe.”

He looks back toward the black door, and He Xuan finally seems to understand what the child means to do.

“…Are you actually going back?” He mutters, eyes widening with shock.

The cultivator doesn’t look back, his flute clutched in one hand—the other balled into a fist.

“I’d rather die than be useless,” He mutters, his spine straight.

The fear Hua Cheng saw before—it’s still there. Along with a fragile sense of vulnerability, hanging heavily in the air around him.

But the teenager willingly puts that aside, for now.

“…And if I go back like this,” his fingers tighten around the flute. “I won’t be able to return the favor to the ones who brought me here.”

He Xuan’s eyes flash with understanding.

He knows a vengeful tone, when he hears it. Can recognize the wrath, the hate in his voice.

Hua Cheng says little else, watching as the young man raises the flute to his lips.

This is a dangerous way, he can see it. A cursed way.

Something a ghost could manage, but a human?

The damage that would do to a soul…

“My name is Wei Wuxian, by the way.” The teenager murmurs, lips brushing against the wood of the flute as he speaks. “And you two should leave, if you don’t want to get caught up in this.”

Far from the trembling, terrified child that he was moments ago, but—

He still is.

Hua Cheng can see the way his shoulders tremble, even now, as his voice speaks with such confidence.

The boy is still terrified—he’s just resolved.

He Xuan, still remembering what it felt like to be caught under that spell from before, grips Hua Cheng’s arm tightly.

“Let’s go.”

The Ghost King hesitates, and He Xuan grips him tighter, his voice sharp.

“This isn’t our fight. We have another purpose, remember?”

How could he not?

The first notes of the flute pipe out, but before they can hear anymore—the scene cracks and fractures.

No realm in the land between life and death. No red and black doors. No music. No dark robed cultivator with heartbroken eyes.

When they land again, it’s in darkness, the path before them stretching long and wide, forking ahead.

“…Control it,” He Xuan presses him.

Hua Cheng doesn’t seem very receptive to advice at the moment.

“I’m /trying/,” he snarls, clutching at his head. “Do you think anyone has ever done this before?! That it’s an exact science?!”

Of course, it isn’t.

From what Hua Cheng can surmise, the two paths are their own.

Meaning that they can just turn back, and…

“Papa?”

Both men freeze, but it’s He Xuan who whips around, his eyes flickering until they find a figure standing in the dark walk way, just to the right of the fork.

A little boy.

Dressed in fine silk robes. Dark hair, and…

Green eyes, just like the leaves on the trees, twinkling up at him brightly.

The child grins impishly, spinning around on his heel.

“Bet you can’t catch me this time!”

He goes running off down the tunnel, disappearing into the dark, and Hua Cheng…

He tries to stop him.

“Don’t follow,” the Ghost King starts, reaching for He Xuan’s hand. “I don’t know if it’s real, but don’t—”

He Xuan is already gone, moving like a man possessed, chasing the child down the tunnel.

Hua Cheng hasn’t seen anything like it—not from him.

Such an immediate abandonment of rationality.

“…” Hua Cheng rises to his feet, rubbing a hand down his face with a groan, making ready to follow the two of them, so he can drag He Xuan back, but…

“San Lang.”

He goes still at the sound of that voice.

Echoing faintly.

When Hua Cheng turns his head, he hears it again.

Echoing through the tunnel, down the left hand side.

“San Lang.”

And in that moment, really—

He’s no better than He Xuan.

Because he chases that voice.

He runs down the tunnel as fast as his legs will take him.

Runs so far, so fast—

He couldn’t tell you how far forward he’s gone, or if he’s too lost to make his way back again.

He runs so far, that eventually—the tunnel collapses beneath his feet, spitting him back out again.

/THUD!/

“…This is getting old,” The Ghost King groans.

He pushes himself up, body aching from so many falls in such a short period of time—and when he looks around, he goes still.

Knowing that he must have gone…

Far.

He eyes the lights on the ceiling, burning not from a flame, but some other source, covered with glass.

Like lanterns holding small lightning bolts inside of them.

But when Hua Cheng glances around, the room seems very much like a Taoist temple.

Places for offerings, incense burning. Just as he starts to look for a name plate or divine statue, the doors swing open.

Hua Cheng turns around, and his breath halts.

Standing in the doorway, his hair pulled up into a messy bun, wearing clothes that seem utterly foreign, is Hua Cheng’s god.

Holding a small metal rectangle against his cheek, speaking as though it can somehow hear him.

“We’ll both be there,” Xie Lian confirms, setting his bag down. “He’s just about finished for the day, anyway.”

Hua Cheng can’t discern what sort of device it must be—maybe a way to enter the communication array without spiritual power? But…

“Alright—see you then.”

Xie Lian taps his thumb against the device—and Hua Cheng watches as it lights up before going dark again, baffled, but…

He’s far more focused on the fact that, even now—so far into the future—

Xie Lian has the same silver chain hanging around his neck.

And even now, when he walks before the altar—the god doesn’t kneel or prostrate.

He bows his head politely, clasping his hands in front of him, and Hua Cheng notices something else. Something that makes his heart ache.

Xie Lian looks happy.

Not like he’s fronting happiness.

Or like he’s experiencing a moment of passing contentment.

No.

In his moment, peace seems to radiate from the god. A sort of fulfillment that emanates from a soul like sunlight.

This is not a man who is living with loneliness or pain.

It’s a man who is truly, honestly happy.

And the sight of that—

It’s the most beautiful thing in the entire world. At any point, future or past.

Enough so that it leaves Hua Cheng spellbound, just watching him.

He understands now, how willing Zhao Beitong was to live for so long inside such pleasant dreams.

Hua Cheng feels like he could live inside this moment forever, and be just as happy as she was.

The doors slide open behind them, and Xie Lian whips around, his expression rising like the sun, beaming.

“San Lang!”

Just as Hua Cheng’s gaze starts to follow, however…

The scene shatters, splitting apart.

Dreams never last forever, after all—even if they’re your own future.

But that’s alright.

Hua Cheng closes his eyes, allowing himself to be dragged back, hair whipping around him in the darkness.

He’ll get back there, eventually.

It’s only a matter of time.

A long time—but still.

/THUD!/

When he opens his eyes again—it’s to the familiar sight of the Kiln ceiling overhead, and the sound of He Xuan coughing and sputtering beside him.

“…Did it work?” Zhao Beitong calls out, cautious. “What did you see?”

Hua Cheng sits up, glancing over at his companion, and…

He Xuan doesn’t seem inclined to speak. Whatever it was that he saw…it seems to have left the ghost utterly…

Haunted.

For now, Hua Cheng settles for telling her the truth—and what she wants to hear.

“We get him.”

Her eyes widen sharply, and Hua Cheng offers her a tired, haphazard smile. “It takes some time—but we get him.”

“…How?” The former Queen of Wuyong whispers, hands clutched tightly against her chest.

Carefully, Hua Cheng tells her. As much of it as he can, anyway.

There’s still so much of it that he doesn’t understand.

But in the end—He Xuan’s original idea was sound.

They have a distinct advantage now. And, they know that Hua Cheng and He Xuan’s paths leave them on a collision path with what needs to transpire.

He Xuan knows himself. Knows that he’ll seek revenge, which will place him close to Jun Wu.

He doesn’t seem as comfortable with that now. Not like he was before.

Hua Cheng will pursue his god—and when Xie Lian comes to the Kiln, Bai Wuxiang will follow him.

In doing so, he’ll seal his own fate, not knowing that, for once, he’s about to be taken by surprise.

“…” Zhao Beitong sinks down to her knees between the two young men, her palms resting against the kiln floor. “…I never allowed myself to believe it was possible,” she admits.

Learned helplessness is a powerful thing, after all.

Over time, part of her thought that this game they were locked in was endless. That true rest—that would never come.

But now, looking back and forth between the ghosts who sit before her…

She smiles.

The gates of the Kiln remain open—and with that, comes a signal—sent far and wide throughout the ghost realm.

That a new Ghost King has been born.

The last Calamity, incidentally, that she will ever forge.

Finally, she turns to look at Hua Cheng, holding her hand out.

“…I can trust you two to handle the rest until the time comes, can’t I?”

“…” Hua Cheng smiles tiredly, reaching out to grip her hand in return. “You know that you can.”

And until then, she can rest.

He Xuan watches as Guoshi Tonglu’s form fades and flickers.

Eventually, she disappears all together, her form fading unti…

Only the butterflies remain.

They hover in the air for e moment, floating sluggishly—then disappear into the night.

Just as their master did before them.

“…Do you think it’ll take too long?” He finally mutters.

Hua Cheng doesn’t answer at first—nor does he as for clarification.

He Xuan could mean anything, after all. And yet, in either case, Hua Cheng’s answer remains the same:

“It might feel long,” Crimson Rain murmurs, rising to his feet. “But it’s only a matter of time.”

He offers the new Ghost King his hand, and, eventually…

Black Water reaches up to take it, allowing the older man to help him stand up.

“…You’re not going to charge me interest, are you?”

Hua Cheng barks out a laugh, walking towards the gates.

“I absolutely am.”

“Not even a small exception for a co-conspirator?”

“I’m not running a charity.”

He feels the memories start to fade away, as he passes through the gates of the Kiln.

Hua Cheng forgets Xie Lian falling into the Kiln. Forgets the young cultivator and his flute.

He forgets the young boy that He Xuan went chasing after—and he forgets the almost foreign, yet so familiar version of his god that he saw towards the end.

How happy he was, still wearing Hua Cheng’s ring, and…

Still calling out to him.

But some things do remain.

He remembers the way Xie Lian looked in the market that day, smiling as he watched He Sheng repairing his loom.

Remembers his own whispered apologies, and his promise.

‘This world is his future.’

Hua Cheng forgot that, for a time.

He won’t make that mistake again.

No matter how long it takes. Because he knows now, even if he can’t exactly remember how or why—

The path he walks now is the one that will bring him home.

He just has to keep moving forward.

The Ghost Kings walk separate paths, from the gates of Mount Tonglu.

One returns to his gambler’s throne, ruling his city of ghosts—and continues his search.

The other slinks off into the dark, cold waters that he once called his grave. To find and hide his own remains.

Once there, he lurks, and he plans.

Watches the prosperity of his enemies.

He doesn’t make the name for himself that his elder calamities did, no. He Xuan allows his name to fade into mystery, only known for occasionally terrorizing and sinking the ships that the Water Master has gone out of his way to bless.

And, eventually, he hatches his scheme.

A long game—but one he knows that he can win.

But it’s the memories that He Xuan lost that will be his undoing.

The consequences that he won’t understand, not until a horrible choice is left before him, and he’s forced to remember what he forgot by choice:

That a heart never really dies.

It can break down, fade, and waste away—but like a ghost, something will remain inside of you.

Waiting for the moment that a spark can resurrect it.

And, the last words his first love ever gave him.

‘You’re a good man, He Xuan.’

He Xuan will spend the following centuries of his life, trying to tell himself that he isn’t. That he was a silly, naive child before. But he isn’t a good man now, and he never was.

Oh, the things Black Water would do, the crimes he would commit, when he believed that he didn’t have a heart.

And the pain he would feel. The deep, aching remorse that would consume him, when love would find him again.

No matter how hard he would try to resent it—to deny it.

It would still find him.

Even as he tried to seal himself off and hide—it would seep through the cracks of his armor like the wind itself.

And until the last possible moment, he would fight it.

But, among everything else that he’s forgotten—one memory isn’t quite so damning.

Because He Xuan’s story, while long and often painful—does not end in tragedy.

It’s just a long, winding path to get there.

But, like most things in this world—

It’s only a matter of time.

⏳ YEAR FOUR HUNDRED AND EIGHTY FIVE ⌛️

Xie Lian has never been prone to remembering his dreams.

Not the good ones, anyway—his nightmares he remembers quite well.

Which is a shame, because this is something he thinks he would like to remember:

Being held in someone’s arms.

He turns his face into someone’s chest, his eyes half-lidded.

The smell is familiar.

Fresh, like the forest. Clean, but with a wildness to it.

The God’s lips turn up at the corners as he reaches up, looping his arms around his companion’s neck, pulling himself closer.

“Hong-er,” he mumbles, feeling someone’s face press against his hair, shivering in response.

“Dianxia.”

His voice sounds different now. Deeper, more self assured. Xie Lian supposes this is what it would have been like, if he’d had the chance to…

His stomach twists with grief.

It’s been four centuries since he lost him. And Xie Lian—he’s never forgotten. Never tried to. But…

There are moments like this, when he remembers how strong that the ache can be.

“…I should probably wake up now,” he mumbles, a little mournful.

“Probably,” the dream agrees. “But if you want to sleep a little longer, why shouldn’t you? You have time.”

Too much time.

Xie Lian presses his palms against Hong-er’s chest, rising up until he’s straddling his waist, “If you had it your way, I’d never lift a finger.”

There’s the soft rumble of a chuckle under his hands. “Is that such a bad thing?”

The prince finally opens his eyes—something he can only do in his dreams.

And just like every other time, he wishes he could remember.

Because if this is what he would have looked like…

Xie Lian’s hands slide up from his chest, cupping the younger man’s cheeks—and he smiles so softly, thumbs stroking over his jaw.

His Hong-er was always so handsome.

But then he notices the dark leather covering the right side of his face, and the prince frowns.

“Hong-er,” he murmurs, rubbing the skin underneath the eyepatch, “What happened to your eye?”

The younger man’s face briefly twists into a scowl, then turns sheepish, glancing away like he’s about to be scolded.

“…I lost it,” he mumbles.

“How on earth did you do that?”

“Doing something stupid,” the dark haired man mutters, shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“…Of course it does,” Xie Lian’s frown only manages to deepen. “There’s only one Hong-er out there, and he’s very important to me. Take better care of him, won’t you?”

The young man underneath him arches one slim, elegant eyebrow—and in an instant, his weight shifts as he sits up. Xie Lian almost goes tumbling backwards with an undignified yelp, caught off guard—but he’s caught by an arm wrapping around the small of his back.

“I—um—!” Xie Lian starts, then stops.

He’s always been more than a little ashamed of his thoughts sometimes turning in his direction. It feels disrespectful, to think of the dead in such a way. After all, there’s no reason to think Hong-er would have even wanted—

But when long, cool fingers dip into the front of his robes, he lets out a violent shiver, his cheeks growing hot. “That’s—!”

“—a little hypocritical, don’t you think?”

Xie Lian opens his eyes, slightly half lidded, only to find…

Hong-er smirking up at him, holding up a ring.

Dangling from a silver chain around Xie Lian’s neck, now delicately looped around Hong-er’s pinky, allowing him to hold it up for the god’s inspection.

“You’re the one always taking such good care of me,” Hong-er murmurs.

Xie Lian’s first reaction is to feel mortified.

Even in his dreams, he’s the one thinking about such unnecessarily inappropriate things, when all Hong-er is trying to do is pay him a compliment.

But then…his throat is thick with emotion, too.

“But who is taking care of you, dianxia?”

“…I’m trying,” Xie Lian mumbles.

“I’m doing my best, really,” he glances up at Hong-er through his lashes, arms still wrapped around the younger man’s neck. “I’m just not as good at it as you.”

“And you get lonely,” the dark haired young man murmurs, his eyebrows knitting with sadness.

“…Yes,” Xie Lian admits

“But…there are moments that aren’t so bad,” he mutters, trying to justify it. “I’ve learned how to do my own hair, too—not as nice as you or Mu Qing, but not so bad either. And my cooking…”

He cringes.

“Well, I make enough to eat out most days, so I—mmmph!”

The mouth on his is slightly cold, but soft, and always so loving.

And in these quiet, gentle moments that Xie Lian is always doomed to forget, he’s happy.

Sighing, sinking deeper into the kiss as Hong-er’s fingers thread through his hair, his arms tightening around his neck.

“I miss you,” the younger man breathes against his lips, arms clutching Xie Lian closer. “I miss you so much.”

The God’s chest aches, because he knows.

It’s not forever. He tries to tell himself that, but…

Immortality is a long, lonely path to walk.

“…I love you,” Xie Lian mumbles in return, his fingers digging into the back of Hong-er’s robes.

Hearing that always makes the young man tremble in his arms, kissing him more frantically—until the god feel’s his thoughts start to become slow and heated, like warm caramel.

“I love you,” he whispers again, his breaths becoming ragged, wishing—

Wishing he could just stay here a little longer. Maybe until the end of the world, if that was possible.

“I’ll find you,” Hong-er rasps, hands sliding down the prince’s back, gripping his waist firmly.

“I promise, I’ll find you.”

Xie Lian sinks back into the sheets with him, his head a little fuzzy—but filled with confusion.

Find him?

What does he—?

THUD!

Noise cracks through the dream, and now—Xie Lian isn’t gasping with want.

He’s groaning with annoyance.

“…Dianxia?”

That’s the last thing Xie Lian sees, hears, or feels before the world goes black again.

And he wakes up…

Sleeping in a ditch.

The god sits up, rubbing his forehead, all memories of the dream rapidly fading, but…

He knows it was a good one, and that he’s annoyed to be awake.

But that’s not the pressing matter at the moment.

That would be the thing that woke him up.

The sound of shouting in the distance. Screaming and arguing—the clash of blades.

And somewhere, not so far from him, Xie Lian hears someone scream—

“PROTECT THE CROWN PRINCE!”

‘Yes,’ Xie Lian agrees silently, glaring blankly at the darkness ahead, his arms still spread out on either side of him. ‘Protect the crown prince. He’s been woken up too early, has a crick in his neck, and would like some mantou. Chop chop!’

Obviously, they aren’t talking about him.

After laying on the ground and feeling sorry for himself for approximately ten seconds, like he does every other morning, the god sighs, fumbling for the chain around his neck, bringing the ring hanging from the end of it to his lips.

“Morning, Hong-er,” he mumbles.

(He has said this one hundred and seventy seven thousand, two hundred and thirteen times.)

“Today is going to be a good day.”

You have to put positive energy out into the universe in order to get it back. His mother always used to say that.

His luck might not be fantastic, but maybe a good attitude can manifest a lack of complete and utter disaster.

Xie Lian tells himself that, listening to the utter chaos of the battle that is currently going on up on the main road.

But first, he goes about combing his hair.

If there’s still a ruckus going on by the time he’s done, he’ll deal with it then.

Normally he would be a little more immediate when it comes to offering his aid, but, well…

Whatever that dream was, Xie Lian was enjoying it, and it’s early, and his head hurts.

Oh, and he’s been out of mantou for three days now.

That might have something to do with the stabbing headache.

Once his hair is neatly pulled back into a low ponytail, he listens closely, expecting the imperial guards to have handled it by now, but…

“FORM UP, MEN!”

Annnnd they are still struggling.

Xie Lian sighs, scratching one of his ears—which have become unbelievably sensitive, over time—and when he listens closely, he can get a pretty good idea of what’s going on.

Two groups clashing. Expensive steel against cheap pig iron.

The rebels seem to outnumber the guards from the sound of it—and they’ve outflanked them.

Cheap. Sloppy.

Xie Lian managed his own security as the crown prince, hand selected every single guard who worked under him.

Feng Xin handled their training, but Xie Lian tested each one.

The idea was that, while the Crown Prince certainly could handle any ruffian he came across, the purpose of the palace guards was to ensure that he never needed to expend his energy or sully his blade with such trivial matters.

Now, however—nothing is too trivial to avoid warranting his attention, and…

He can hear the terrified cries of the prince they’re protecting, and Xie Lian realizes—he’s just a child.

“…” The god lets out a heavy sigh, rising to his feet. “Ruoye.”

The spiritual tool wiggles to attention, eager to be of use, and Xie Lian sighs, waving at the bandage with a gentle sort of annoyance.

“No fighting for you.”

The tool sags, almost sulkily.

It took time, for the two of them to get used to one another.

The problem was almost entirely on Xie Lian’s part.

In those early years, it…took time, for the prince to completely come back to himself. It was good that he was alone, because he was prone to…

Moments of madness.

He even lashed out at Ruoye when the tool tried to help him.

There was one afternoon, when he tripped on the way down to the river, and Ruoye caught him by the wrist, like always, but that one time…

The other end brushed agains this throat.

And in that moment, Xie Lian remembered exactly what the tool was. How it was made.

Those where the moments when he would lash out.

Grabbing the bandage between his hands, like he wanted to rip it apart or throttle it, sobbing—

‘You killed my parents.’

‘Why are you helping me?!’

‘Oh god, you killed my parents!’

For a time, Ruoye was frightened of him.

It would tremble with nerves, every time it got close.

But it never stopped trying to catch Xie Lian, when he was falling.

And slowly, over the centuries—they built up trust, even if it took a long time.

“Just cover me up, okay?” Xie Lian murmurs.

He pulls his hood up, covering his eyes and the top of his head, while Ruoye wraps itself snuggly around the lower half of his face, still covering the cursed shackle around his throat.

Xie Lian can’t show his face right now, not since the incident with the Circus in Banyue.

He’s fairly sure there’s still more than a few arrest warrants out for that, even though Xie Lian is quite sure that he never broke any laws…

Well.

There’s something to be said for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

He makes his way up the hill, contemplating.

Given the fact that he looks like a beggar right now—using Fangxin would make him stand out, so…

He reaches out, feeling for a nice, sturdy tree limb—and, upon finding one, twists it free with a flick of his wrist.

Not much worse than their weapons, honestly.

At the top of the hill, a young boy cowers beneath his guards, his arms thrown up and over his head, breathing hard. “W-Why are they trying to get me?!” He whimpers, scrambling backwards until his back slams against the side of his carriage.

“Probably to get leverage over your parents,” one of the guards in front of him grunts. “Listen, just stay behind me, and it’ll be—!”

He cuts off with a pained cry, blood spurting from his chest, splattering across the prince’s face when a blade springs through.

A boy of just eleven years old, one who has never seen such horror—

The child can’t do anything but scream, cringing away, waiting for his inevitable demise, but—

But no blade ever reaches him.

As a matter of fact, even though most of his guards are dead…

The fighting seems to intensify.

Actually—

The rebels seem to be…losing, somehow?

“Where did he COME FROM?!”

“Look pal, if you chill out, we’ll give you a cut of the—!”

“OH GOD, MY LEG!”

Trembling, the prince slowly peeks his head out from behind one of his guard’s arms.

That’s the first time that he sees him.

White robes swirling around, his face entirely covered, dark hair peeking out from underneath his hood. And the way he moves—

It’s like nothing else the young prince has ever seen.

Like water, or something inhumanly graceful.

With nothing more than a tree branch, every single bandit is strategically disarmed and knocked out, left groaning and unconscious on the road.

All thirty of them, by just—

By just one man, who doesn’t even wield a proper weapon.

The last one drops—and with him, the branch.

“Are you alright, little one?”

The prince looks up, his face pale, and…

The figure kneeling before him isn’t so scary.

Maybe a little dirty and bedraggled, but not frightening at all.

“Y…Yes, I am!” The child whispers.

“You aren’t hurt?”

“N-No…”

The prince shakes his head, his voice just a little unsteady, but then—

“Mister!” He sits up quickly, eyeing the stranger’s arms. “You’re hurt!”

Xie Lian blinks, glancing down at his limbs stupidly, constantly forgetting that he can’t actually SEE them, but when he checks…

And when he rubs his palms over his forearms, he realizes.

Oh dear, he really did get sliced up, didn’t he?

It’s probably to be expected, given that he couldn’t actually guard properly without a proper sword, and he was groggy from waking up, but…

That’s still embarrassing. Really, what would his Guoshi think, if they could see him now…

“Oh, it’s fine,” he smiles, trying to wave it off—

(He’s bleeding so much that the action actually makes more blood splatter on the ground, leaving the prince and his guards horrified.)

For some reason, they’re downright insistent on taking him back to the palace with them, all in the name of him receiving treatment in exchange for saving the prince’s life.

Over and over, Xie Lian tries to insist that it isn’t necessary, but…

They don’t take no for an answer.

Which is fine, he supposes. Even if it feels odd, accepting Yong’an’s charity.

Or gratitude, he supposes. After all—he did save the heir to the throne’s life.

A few days laying in an infirmary isn’t so bad. Better than a ditch, at least.

And it gives him more time to sleep.

Even if he doesn’t remember his dreams when he wakes up in the morning—he’s always happy, curled up on his side underneath soft sheets for once, listening to the birds singing through the window.

And even with his back turned, he can always hear it.

The taps of little feet.

“…” A small smile tugs at Xie Lian’s lips, even if he doesn’t turn over just yet. “It’s rude, you know.”

There’s a pause near the doorway, breath halting, a heart skipping a beat.

His smile widens.

“Spying isn’t very nice,” he muses.

“I’m not spying!” A voice protests.

That of a little boy.

Probably just eleven years old.

Xie Lian curls up in the hospital bed, hugging his knees closer against his chest, fiddling with the chain around his neck.

“Is that a little bird then, flapping around in the rafters?”

“Maybe,” the boy replies, pouting.

“Birds don’t talk,” Xie Lian chides, but with no real scolding in his voice. “Were you worried?”

“…You got hurt trying to protect me,” the little boy mumbles, standing in the doorway of the infirmary. “I want to make sure you get better.”

The god’s expression softens.

He pushes himself to sit up, patting the edge of his bed. “Well, why don’t you come on over here and see for yourself, then?”

The boy seems a little hesitant at first—but he slowly creeps forward, cautiously climbing up onto the cot.

Xie Lian offers one bandaged arm.

The boy stares down at it, wary, and the god bumps him gently with his shoulder. “Why don’t you give it a little smack? It doesn’t hurt at all.”

“…You want me to hit you?” The prince frowns, shaking his head. “I can’t!”

“Sure you can,” Xie Lian assures him. “I’m all better.”

“…” He seems hesitant, so Xie Lian goes first, giving his forearm a hard slap.

/THWAP!/

The sound nearly makes the boy jump out of his skin, but…Xie Lian doesn’t even flinch.

“See?” The god wiggles his fingers. “I’m just fine.”

The boy smiles—just a little. “…Mister?”

“Hmm?”

“What’s your name?”

After a moment, he replies—

“Fangxin.”

An odd one, but he can’t use Hua Xie right now. Not after the goat thing—even if it was a decade ago.

“What about you?”

The boy hums. “…You don’t already know?”

Fangxin shakes his head with a sigh, “I’m a traveler,” he explains. “I’ve been so many places, I don’t always know the names of every royal in the area.”

Well, that makes sense.

“Lang Qiangqiu,” the boy mumbles, and finally—he gives the stranger a gentle smack on the arm.

It’s hard to tell, but it looks like Fangxin might be smiling underneath the bandages. “See?” He holds his arm up again, before reaching up to ruffle the boy’s hair. “You can’t hurt me, Lang Qiangqiu.”

The boy seems a little surprised. “…Most people don’t ever call me that.”

Xie Lian figured as much.

No one ever called him by his actual name, when he was a boy.

It was always dianxia, your highness, his excellency, and so on.

But his mother always called him ‘son,’ and—

Gege.

Someone used to call him that, once.

But never his actual name.

“…Apologies, taizi dianxia,” the god murmurs, ruffling the young prince’s hair once more. “I’m not used to being around nobility anymore.”

“…” Lang Qiangqiu offers him a lopsided grin, unaware of the fact that Fangxin can’t see it. “That’s okay! I kinda like it!”

From then on, the prince makes a point of coming to the infirmary every chance he gets. Between breaks in his lessons, after meals. When he wakes up in the morning, and just before he goes to bed at night.

Even the King and Queen take notice.

“…He’s besotted, isn’t he?”

His mother comments, leaning against the king as she takes in the sight.

The King of Yong’an nods, watching as the young prince eagerly trails behind the hospital patient—whom they now know is a young, gifted cultivator, Fangxin.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen him listen to someone so easily. Not without having to be strong armed into it.” The King sighs, rubbing the side of his neck.

Their son is talented in martial arts. Maybe naive, yes—but still, he’s gifted. If he would only apply himself, he…

Out in the courtyard, the prince stops in the middle of chattering on and on about his lessons, looking up at Fangxin with a curious eye. “Fangxin-Laoshi, can I ask you a question?”

“I’m not a teacher,” the god reminds him with a sigh, “but sure.”

“Why do you hide your face?”

“…” Underneath the bandages, Xie Lian smiles. “Oh, I’m not like you, dianxia.” He murmurs.

Playing pretend. Impersonating someone.

“What do you mean?” Lang Qiangqiu questions, tilting his head.

“I’m not beautiful.”

‘Liar,’ Xie Lian thinks to himself. ‘He was such a liar.’

The prince doesn’t seem to believe him, not for a single second. “No way!” He shakes his head, reaching over to pluck at the longer strands down the cultivator’s back. “You’ve got pretty hair! So, your face can’t be that bad!”

Xie Lian fights the urge to flinch.

He isn’t used to being touched anymore.

Beaten, stabbed, throttled—he’s accustomed to all of those feelings.

But casual touching—no, he’s forgotten all about that.

And after the torture he endured under Bai Wuxiang—

He still fears gentle touches.

Thinks they’re tricks.

“…Hair really doesn’t have anything to do with it,” Xie Lian mumbles.

“Your voice is nice too,” Lang Qiangqiu points out, spinning around on his heels, walking backwards with his hands clasped behind his back, watching the cultivator cheerfully. “And I can kinda see your nose.”

He leans his head back, looking closely. “It’s a nice one!”

Unfortunately, Xie Lian is more than aware of the fact that he’s beautiful.

And oh, how he came to loath the fact that anyone ever called him that.

“…Maybe I’m ugly on the inside,” he whispers.

The prince pauses.

The way Fangxin says that—

It isn’t teasing.

It sounds like he believes it—with his whole heart.

“…Why would that make you hide your face?”

“Does a horrible person deserve to be praised for his good looks?”

“Mmmm…” The child frowns. “You’re not horrible! You saved me.”

“I heard them calling you the prince,” Xie Lian points out. “Maybe I just wanted a nice stay in the palace, hmm?”

“…” The boy pauses, thinking that over, and the cultivator sighs.

“You need to stop being so naive, dianxia. It’ll be the end of you.”

“I’m not naive, I just…”

Lang Qiangqiu shrugs, offering him a happy smile. “I just trust you, that’s all!” He turns around, rummaging with something. “Fangxin!”

The cultivator turns his head, raising an eyebrow.

“Bend down here for a minute? I can’t reach!”

Xie Lian is somewhat exasperated.

But he still complies.

And when he does, Lang Qiangqiu tucks something behind his ear, leaning back with a smile.

“There!” He beams. “Even with the bandages, you look good now.”

Xie Lian reaches up, slightly confused—then he stops.

It’s a flower, tucked into his hair.

Oh.

The prince can’t see it, but for the first time in centuries, Xie Lian’s eyes sting.

Someone else did that once. When he had nothing. When he was so horribly, horribly alone.

Xie Lian didn’t appreciate it then. Didn’t thank him for it.

And then Wu Ming was gone.

God, Xie Lian forgot how much he missed him, too.

He kept that white flower that was left behind until it wilted, crumbling into dust.

He doesn’t have anything left to remember the ghost by. The last creature that was so kind to him.

The first and only kiss he ever chose.

“…Thank you,” he mumbles, squeezing the flower petal between his fingertips.

The prince pauses, surprised by the emotion in Fangxin’s voice.

“For the flower,” the cultivator explains. “It’s beautiful.”

Silently, he wishes that he could have just mustered those words before.

But he’s always been such a slow learner, hasn’t he?

In the days that follow, he finishes healing the rest of the way—even though he insisted, he really was ready to leave by the second day—and when he makes ready to leave, he’s offered a proposition.

By a King, no less.

The King of Yong’an, offering Xie Lian the opportunity to take on the Crown Prince as his student.

To become their state preceptor in one fell swoop.

After all, it’s missed no one’s notice, how exceptionally knowledgeable he is. And his sword skills are beyond comparison.

Who better, to teach a crown prince? To mold the future of a nation?

To Xie Lian, the whole thing feels like some sort of cruel joke.

And yet.

When he remembers the cruelty he once wanted to unleash upon Yong’an, and it’s people…

It feels like a fair penance to pay.

After all, that was why he lost Wu Ming.

And that—

That’s why he took on these shackles again, isn’t it? To pay for that?

So, it seems fair.

He agrees to take the crown prince as his student, and in doing so, takes on a new name.

Fangxin Guoshi, the Imperial Preceptor.

Known across the land for his skills, his knowledge—always trailing through the palace of Yong’an, a prince flocking to his side with adoration.

Dressed in fine, black and gold silks—and always wearing a golden mask over the top half of his face, hiding his eyes.

He’s a patient teacher. Always fair, when handing out discipline.

Xie Lian has never had a student, until now—but to his surprise, he actually takes to the challenge rather well.

His only regret is his inability to get close to the boy. It’s clearly what Lang Qiangqiu wants.

In a way, Xie Lian’s heart goes out to the boy—because he can understand.

His childhood was so lonely.

No equals. Not really.

The closest thing he had to a friend was a boy who was trained to die for him. And when Xie Lian tried to make another? Well.

He didn’t do a good job.

And yet, Xie Lian keeps him at a careful distance.

With one glaring exception.

There is one great equalizer among rich and poor, you see—particularly among women.

Childbirth.

The Queen of Yong’an was older, to be carrying a child—everyone knew that.

There was fear on the king’s part, that she might not be able to carry the child to term. Even the doctors showed some concern.

But no one expected to lose them both.

He sat by the Queen’s deathbed, holding the king’s hand as he wept, explaining there was nothing to be done.

That with how much blood had been lost, there was no way to make her healthy again.

Lang Qiangqiu was just fourteen, when he lost her.

And oh, how the boy wept.

Alone, because his father was too lost in his own grief to come to his aid.

And Xie Lian, he…

He knows all too well, what it feels like to mourn alone.

It was the only time that Fangxin Guoshi ever opened his arms to the teenager like that, and his student came running to him.

Clinging to him as he sobbed, crying out for the one thing that he couldn’t have:

His mother.

“Does it ever hurt less?” He whispers.

It’s late in the afternoon, in the palace gardens. They’re sitting on a marble bench. The Guoshi’s posture is straight and proper, but the prince has been weeping for so long, his head rests against his teacher’s leg.

“…No, it doesn’t.”

Xie Lian tilts his head, listening to the boy sniffle, his fingers stroking through Lang Qiangqiu’s hair. So softly.

His Guoshi has always been so cold with him, so far away—

The prince never realized how soft his hands could be. How much comfort they could bring.

“But you know, there was something that my own mother used to tell me.” His Guoshi murmurs, catching Lang Qiangqiu’s attention.

It’s rare that Fangxin ever talks about himself, after all.

“…What?” He croaks.

“I used to love building golden palaces, remember that game?”

The prince nods shallowly. It’s been around forever, after all.

“Well,” Xie Lian smiles faintly. “I used to work so hard, building them—and I’d throw the worst tantrums when they fell down.”

Lang Qiangqiu snorts. “It’s hard to imagine you doing that, Guoshi.”

The god hangs his head for a moment, not speaking—and when he does, he sounds almost remorseful. “I was a rather spoiled child, actually. It took me a long time to learn my lesson.”

And it was always at the expense of so many others.

“But…” Xie Lian sighs.

“She taught me—that was always the point. Part of building them is that they fall down.”

Lang Qiangqiu doesn’t speak at first, turning his cheek into the Guoshi’s leg. “How does that help me?”

Gentle fingers stroke through his hair.

“Part of loving people is losing them.”

Xie Lian explains, tilting his chin back.

He knows that the sun hasn’t come down yet, and now—he misses the sight of it, slipping underneath the horizon.

“But that doesn’t mean that it isn’t worth it. And you can keep them with you as you move forward.”

“…How do you do that?”

Lang Qiangqiu glances up—just in time to see the corners of his Guoshi’s lips curve into a smile.

Soft, yet bittersweet.

“My mother—she used to name every single dish that she cooked. Even if it was something as simple as plain rice.”

“Like the royal chefs do?”

The Guoshi hums, pleased to hear that the prince isn’t weeping anymore, just quietly sniffling.

“She said that it could make any meal special. Worthy of a palace—even though she was horrible at cooking, to be honest with you.”

Still, Xie Lian regrets every plate he turned away.

“Now, I name every meal I make too,” he explains. “And I think of her.”

It’s even more reminiscent, given that he’s just as bad of a cook as she was.

“…What happened to her?”

Lang Qiangqiu watches as the smile on Fangxin’s face freezes.

It takes him a long time to answer.

“…I let her down,” Is the only explanation that the Guoshi gives.

His student remains quiet for some time after that, but eventually—he asks another question.

“Fangxin Guoshi?”

“Hmm?”

“Why do you wear that ring around your neck, instead of your finger?”

Xie Lian stiffens.

Of course, the child has seen the ring before. They spar every single day, and have for the last three years.

“…It’s too precious,” Xie Lian mutters. “I wouldn’t want to damage it.”

“You wear other jewelry, though.” The prince frowns. “You never seem worried about it.”

“Yes,” Finery given to him as the royal preceptor, expected to maintain a certain look, “but this came from someone important to me.”

Lang Qiangqiu doesn’t try to touch it. He knows—Fangxin Guoshi is very fussy about that. But he does look closely.

“Like…family?”

Xie Lian takes a moment.

He’s used the ring to pass himself off as married many, many times—ever since his days with Jiang Kuo.

But now, he tries to be just a little more honest.

“…Someone I was in love with,” he mutters. “But he isn’t here anymore.”

For some reason—hearing that doesn’t seem to bring Lang Qiangqiu much comfort at all. Not like when Xie Lian spoke of his mother.

“What happened to him?”

Xie Lian reaches for the ring around his neck, slowly turning it over between his fingers, stroking it lovingly.

Eventually, he gives the same answer that he did before, when the prince asked him about his mother:

“…I really let him down,” Xie Lian admits, his voice a little hoarse.

So many times. In so many ways that the prince has lost count of them all.

Lang Qiangqiu doesn’t ask him much more, clinging to his leg even more tightly, and Xie Lian is patient with him. Allows the boy to cry his heart out, carrying the prince on his back when he falls asleep, tucking him into his bed.

That night, Xie Lian sits in the garden.

Until sunrise, he keeps his head tilted back, staring at the stars that he can no longer see.

And yet, he still feels the warmth of the moonlight against his cheeks. The breeze through his hair. Smells the flowers, scent drifting all around him.

Xie Lian doesn’t understand it.

When he took on these shackles, over four centuries ago—he thought that he was simply waiting to fade away.

Wu Ming was his last believer. Without him, in time, Xie Lian would surely fade to nothing. And then—he might move on. Might see Hong-er again. But…

His soul carries on.

And on, and on.

Xie Lian fiddles with the ring around his neck, laying back against the soft grasses.

Who still believes in him now? There can’t possibly be anyone praying to him anymore. Those who haven’t forgotten him only curse his name.

“…Why am I here?” He whispers.

There was a time when Xie Lian’s life had such purpose. Such unending faith in himself. In the righteousness of the path that he walked.

But what has all this time been, if not a wandering path of penance?

And when will it end?

His mask lays on the ground next to him, a rare moment of nakedness outside of the confines of his chambers.

Eyes wide open, the cursed shackle pattern burning in the dark as he stares up at the stars.

He used to do this when he was a child, on the palace grounds in Xianle.

Lay back on the grass and count the stars, always falling asleep before he got that high.

Back then, Feng Xin and Mu Qing would be laying down on either side of him.

Feng Xin was always quiet and stiff, jumping each time he accidentally bumped elbows with his prince.

And Mu Qing…It was the only time he never seemed inclined to grumble, reaching up and gripping the grass on either side of him, dark hair splayed out as he looked up at the stars.

When Xie Lian asked what he was doing, he explained it was something that his father used to say.

Mu Qing spoke about him very little. Xie Lian only knew that he used to be a woodworker in Mu Qing’s village near Mount Taicang.

‘Me and my sister would lay out on the grass with him when he came back from work sometimes,’ his friend murmured, eyes lit with starlight.

‘Just like this.’

Xie Lian never saw the way that Feng Xin would prop himself up on his elbow, turning on his side to watch Mu Qing talk, his expression unreadable.

Mu Qing never looked away from the sky, so he didn’t know it either.

‘And he used to tell us, if we didn’t hang onto the grass tight—we’d float away.’

It was the sort of thing that Xie Lian’s friend normally would have sneered about with his typical cynicism, but—he didn’t.

He sounded…

Longing, in a way Xie Lian’s didn’t understand back then.

He remembers the way he leaned back against the grass, hands folded over his stomach, wiggling his toes to keep them warm as he asked—

‘Where is your father, Mu Qing? I don’t think I’ve ever met him.’

Xie Lian’s friend was quiet for such a long time, after that.

And when he finally did answer, his voice was so small.

Not arrogant or condescending. No hostility at all.

‘…He let go of the grass, your highness.’

Just so achingly filled with sadness.

A pain Xie Lian would come to understand so well, later on.

Back then, the prince didn’t say a word. Just reached out with one hand in the dark, fumbling until he found Mu Qing’s.

Instead of swatting him away or mumbling something about it being inappropriate—Xie Lian’s friend gripped his fingers tightly.

With his other, the prince reached down, twisting blades of grass between his fingertips.

‘I won’t let go, then,’ he whispered—not complaining when Mu Qing gripped his fingers even tighter. ‘I promise.’

He fell asleep like that back then. Holding Mu Qing’s hand.

Dozed, when Feng Xin carefully lifted the prince up into his arms, carrying him back towards the palace.

Xie Lian never said anything about being awake, content to be held—and he listened, as Feng Xin turned his face towards Mu Qing, his voice gruff, but…sympathetic.

‘You never said anything.’

Mu Qing always stayed a couple of steps away from him, hands tightly clasped behind his back as he walked, head hung low.

“You never asked.’

And there were so many things that Xie Lian should have asked him back then. He knows that now.

There was a time when he desperately wanted to take that back. To change it. To throw himself down in Mu Qing and Feng Xin’s temples and pray. Apologize for…for everything.

Now, he knows that it’s better for them if they don’t hear from him.

All of this is for the best.

Now, laying in the imperial gardens of Yong’an, Xie Lian lets go of the grass.

Reaches up blindly, silk sleeves slipping down his arms, pooling at his shoulders as his fingertips reach for the sky.

Like he could scoop up the stars in his hands, if he reached far enough.

He doesn’t float away.

There’s something keeping the god firmly tethered to the earth, but he couldn’t tell you what.

He stares through the shackles blankly, mouth turning down at the corners.

Try as he might, he’s never quite able to see anything through them.

Just darkness.

As his time in Yong’an stretches on, the prince grows older. Into less of an uncertain little boy, and far more a cocksure, overeager young man.

He never gets the upper hand on his Guoshi during sparring, but he certainly tries. Hunts, drinks to his heart’s content.

And just like Xie Lian, he has a few friends—maybe not as close or as genuine as he would like, but friends—to keep him company along the way.

Present more often than not is a wealthy young man by the name of An Le. Always lingering in Lang Qiangqiu’s shadow.

The Guoshi never spares him any time or attention. Only ever offers him a gold glance from underneath that golden mask of his—but An Le never really seems to mind.

He’s content to whisper to Lang Qiangqiu when Fangxin Guoshi is across the feasting hall.

Planting seeds.

“Your Guoshi,” An Le muses, teasing a strawberry over his lips before taking a bite, “He’s always rather lonesome, isn’t he?”

The Prince glances over to his teacher, watching as Fangxin politely rebuffs the advances of several noblewomen with a smile.

“He’s shy, I think!”

The teenager tilts his head to the side, watching as Xie Lian agrees to dance with a younger, far less attractive girl than the rest, one who had been struggling to find a partner all evening.

To her, he’s perfectly charming, even going so far as to kiss her hand when they part.

Then, there are more young men showing interest in her—and the Guoshi seems all the more pleased for it.

“…But he doesn’t have a wife, does he?” An Le points out, kicking his feet up on the table.

“His cultivation method doesn’t allow that sort of thing,” the prince explains.

And even if it did—the way Fangxin has spoken about his former lover, the one that he lost—

Lang Qiangqiu suspects that his Guoshi has no such interests in women. Which is his own business, and the crown prince knows it is not his place to share it.

“Does he have any friends?”

“Me,” he answers quickly, offering An Le an impish smile. “I’m his friend.”

“…” The young man smiles at the prince sympathetically, patting his shoulder. “You’re his student, your highness. Not his friend.”

He watches, as Lang Qiangqiu’s face falls.

In part, out of sadness.

And then…mild defiance.

“If he doesn’t have me as a friend—that would just mean that he didn’t have friends or family at all,” the prince mutters, shaking his head. “That would be too horrible.”

An Le lifts his drink, watching the Guoshi closely.

“Sometimes the truth is horrific, your highness.” He shrugs. “That’s the way life is.”

But not the way that Lang Qiangqiu wishes for it to be.

And when you’re a prince, raised to think that the world is yours to command—you often get it in your head that you can change it.

Simply by willing it to be so.

One afternoon, the prince stops in the middle of his calligraphy, setting down his brush.

“Fangxin Guoshi?”

His teacher sits on the open window sill, one leg thrown over the side, his back leaning against the frame.

His hair is low, today—held behind his head with a black jade comb, inlaid with gold. It leaves several loose locks hanging in front of his face, swaying gently in the breeze.

“What is it?”

“Are you sad, again?”

For a time, his teacher doesn’t answer.

Xie Lian has phrases.

He uses them often, to deflect such attention.

HIs lips quirk into a small smile, and he offers his most common excuse, “This old man is just tired, dianxia. Continue with the lesson.”

“…You aren’t that old, you know,” the prince grumbles. “It’s weird when you say that.”

Xie Lian doesn’t say anything more, looking out the window once more.

The Prince has no idea that he can’t see the sights below—and the old enjoys feeling the breeze.

He has phases, too.

When there’s no energy. No motivation.

When all he wants is to sleep, and hide.

Everything frightens him, even if he doesn’t say it. He feels fragile and pried open, like the slightest invasion could shatter him.

Those times—they come and go, and Xie Lian doesn’t know why. Doesn’t have a word for what they mean, other than just…

Being depressed.

It passes. If he gives it time, it always passes.

He’s been in one of those phases for nearly two years, now. And he’s just ready for it to be done with.

“…FangXin Guoshi?”

His shoulders slump slightly as he sighs. “Yes?”

“Why do you still wear that mask?”

His teacher doesn’t answer him immediately.

He’s wearing deep blue robes today, with golden threads stitched in the shapes of flowers along the sleeves, trailing into black at the ends.

The color is beautiful—contrasting against his skin and hair like he’s been painted that way

“I told you a very long time ago, your highness. Back when we first met.”

Xie Lian doesn’t move, when he hears the sound of Lang Qiangqiu’s stool scraping across the floor, or the sound of his approach.

“But you’re not ugly, Guoshi,” the prince presses him. “We both know that.”

He’s standing just beside Xie Lian now, the god can hear his nervous little heartbeat.

What must he be, sixteen, now? When the years get so long, boys grow up quite fast.

“And you remember my answer to that?” The god murmurs.

“You aren’t ugly on the inside either, Guoshi.”

A hand reaches out. Xie Lian can feel the movement of it.

And when he feels gentle fingertips brushing underneath the curve of the mask, something inside him snaps.

“Stop.” He offers one warning, but the prince seems too lost in his own curiosity to heed it.

Xie Lian once embraced being touched in such a kind and gentle way. Would lean into someone’s hand gratefully, for the reassurance that he wasn’t alone in the dark.

Now, he only remembers one thing:

‘You’ve always had such beautiful eyes.’

/CRACK!/

For a moment, there’s only shock.

Xie Lian pressed back against the window sill, trembling, his hand clutched against his chest.

Lang Qiangqiu, with his head turned to the side—a red handprint forming on his cheek.

A gentle blow, considering the god’s actual strength.

But it still stings quite a bit.

And when Xie Lian speaks, it’s with a voice he hasn’t used in quite some time.

Not the voice of a beggar, or a teacher—but that of something much higher.

“You forget your place, boy.” He hisses, like a snake that’s been threatened.

Slowly, the prince reaches up to touch the growing mark on his cheek, too startled to be angry. When he finally speaks, he simply asks—

“…My place?”

Xie Lian clutches both hands against his chest, trying to stop them from trembling so violently.

“Don’t touch me,” he whispers.

‘Oh god, just—please, don’t touch me.’

There’s a long silence, filled only with his own ragged, frightened heartbeat.

“…I’m sorry,” the prince mumbles, his voice small. Genuinely contrite, and—

So, so lonely.

“Please don’t be angry, Guoshi—I was only…I was only trying to…”

Xie Lian doesn’t speak at first, his lower lip wobbling.

Because he knows.

Knows that the boy didn’t mean any harm. That he was only trying to feel close with someone.

Xie Lian knows how lonely that feeling can be.

He lets out a long, heavy sigh—catching the prince by the wrist before he can retreat.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, dipping his head. “I shouldn’t have struck you.”

Xie Lian told himself long ago, that he would not strike out in anger anymore.

“I was frightened.”

Lang Qiangqiu’s eyes widen apologetically. “I-I’m sorry, Guoshi, I wasn’t trying to—”

“I know,” Xie Lian mutters. “Close your eyes.”

“I…what?”

“If you want to look,” his teacher explains flatly, “You’ll do as I say.”

Hesitantly, the prince complies, eyes sliding shut.

When he does, Xie Lian reaches up, checking his lids with a delicate touch of his fingertips—making the prince shiver—before covering them completely with his palm.

“…” Lang Qiangqiu’s eyebrow’s furrow under Xie Lian’s touch. “Guoshi,” he mutters, “I don’t understand—?”

The hand that’s gripping his wrist lifts the prince’s palm up, and then—

His palm is pressed against his Guoshi’s cheek, and he can feel the lack of a mask there.

This—

This must have been what he meant by looking, then.

It takes a moment for the prince to actually move.

And when he does, his fingertips find a face that…

Isn’t ugly at all.

The skin is perfectly smooth, unblemished. Not a wrinkle in sight.

(So much for being old, huh?)

Symmetrical features. Surprisingly delicate actually—

Soft. Young.

Not what the prince expected at all.

“…” He frowns, his hands cupping the Guoshi’s cheeks. “Why did you ever try to say you are ugly?” He mutters, too far ahead of himself to be embarrassed. “You’re beautiful, Fangxin Guoshi.”

The god doesn’t reply, but now—the prince notices.

His teacher is shaking.

Subtly, but he’s trembling from head to toe.

“…Fangxin Guoshi,” the prince mutters, his eyelashes brushing against Xie Lian’s fingertips as he blinks underneath his palm. “Are you still scared?”

Still, he receives no reply.

“Someone hurt you before, didn’t they?”

His thumbs stroke over Xie Lian’s cheeks, worn with callouses after so many years of training with a blade.

The god’s teeth clench, his nostrils flaring with the effort it takes not to panic, but…

He manages, in a brief moment of honesty, to nod.

Those hands hold him tighter.

“…I won’t let anyone do that, ever again—okay?” The prince mutters fiercely. “I’ll be king one day—and I’ll be even stronger than you. I won’t let anyone hurt you ever again. I promise!”

The god almost smiles.

“That’s kind of you to say.”

“I’m not just saying it—I swear!”

It’s daunting, for the most powerful person you’ve ever met to seem so fragile, even if it’s only for a moment.

Lang Qiangqiu doesn’t care about any of that. Not right now.

He just doesn’t want his teacher to seem so frightened and sad anymore. So lonely.

“…I believe that you’ll try,” the older man concedes, making Lang Qiangqiu frown.

“Really—!”

Then, with a rush of air, his teacher isn’t in his arms anymore—and the prince is opening his eyes with a frantic gasp, looking around.

“GUOSHI?!”

Xie Lian lands on his feet beneath the window—two stories below, his mask back in place.

“Finish your calligraphy,” he folds his hands into his sleeves, his voice stern. “Or you can forget about sparring again this evening.”

With that, he walks through the courtyard.

As the prince watches him go, he realizes—

His Guoshi is really, truly alone.

And all he wants, in the end—is just the chance to stand a little closer to him. Maybe even beside him, if Fangxin would allow it.

But time goes on, and his teacher remains at a distance.

With one exception. The day of his seventeenth birthday.

When the prince awakes in the morning—his Guoshi is already there, sitting on the sedan on the other side of his bedchambers.

And, as usual—staring out the window.

The youth sits up, eyes groggy, hair askew.

“…Did I oversleep?” He mumbles. “Have the lessons already started?”

Fangxin shakes his head, never looking back at him.

“No,” the Guoshi murmurs. “I just wanted the chance to speak to you alone, before the preparations started.”

Right—for the feast being held in his honor.

After all, it’s his coming of age. When he’ll start performing the duties of a full fledged crown prince.

“Sure,” the prince mutters, adjusting his hair slightly as he tries to sit up properly. Even goes through the trouble of clearing his throat, trying to deepen his voice.

“What is it?”

“…” Slowly, the Guoshi rises to his feet—wearing black and gold today, sleeves trailing elegantly as he walks to the prince’s bedside.

The youth doesn’t speak as he watches his Guoshi sit on the edge of the bed, heart pounding, until—

A hand lands in his hair.

When his eyes trail up—

Fangxin’s mouth is turned up into a soft smile, his fingers ruffling the teenager’s hair.

“You’ve done well, Lang Qiangqiu,” he murmurs, tilting his head.

The prince stares at him with eyes the size of dinner plates, lips parted.

“I’m proud of you.”

The Guoshi doesn’t get much more out before Lang Qiangqiu surges forward, flinging his arms around Xie Lian in a tight embrace.

Then, he seems to remember just as soon that he’s crossed a boundary.

“Sorry, sorry, I know, no touching—!”

“It’s alright,” the Guoshi mutters stiffly, adjusting his hair. “I just—you’ve done so well, that there’s a very strong chance that you are going to ascend.”

The prince reacts with blind joy. “You really thinks so?!”

“Yes, but—listen,” Fangxin stops him from cheering.

“There are some things that you’ll need to know when you do.”

Now Lang Qiangqiu stops, watching him very seriously. “Like what?”

“You can’t just do exactly as you like if you ascend, understand?” His Guoshi explains firmly. “Even if it means going against what you believe in.”

“…” The prince frowns, his brow furrowed. “But you told me I should always do what I think is right. Without exception.”

“And I meant that,” Xie Lian agrees. “Unless the Heavenly Emperor ever tells you to do otherwise. Understand?”

The young man hesitates.

“Lang Qianqiu,” His teacher speaks again, his tone stern. “I need you to promise me.”

“Why is it so important?”

“Promise.”

“…Alright,” he agrees, glancing away, squirming a little. “I promise.”

The sigh his Guoshi lets out almost sounds relieved.

“…It will be overwhelming, when you first arrive—especially if you ascend young,” His teacher continues. “It’s best to seek out older gods to help you. Nan Yang would be best.”

“…You think so?”

“Yes,” Fangxin nods emphatically. “Go to him as soon as you arrive.”

“Tell him…the friend who offered a third cup sent you. He’ll know what it means, and he’ll look after you. Remember that. Understand?”

He has to impress these things upon the young prince, who is prone to forgetting minor details.

“You know General Nan Yang?”

“Remember it.”

“Okay, okay—!”

“And spend as much time with your father as you can,” The Guoshi mutters. “You won’t get the chance to after you ascend. You don’t want to regret that. Understand?”

“Yes,” the prince agrees, startled.

Fangxin sounds so…urgent, right now.

So anxious.

“…Why are you being like this, anyway?” Lang Qianqiu mutters, “Couldn’t this wait until later?”

Fangxin looks away, hair covering his face. “I was this age, when…”

The teenager stares. “…When what?!”

Finally, the Guoshi replies—

“I’ll probably be leaving soon.”

Lang Qianqiu stares up at him, his eyes widening with shock—and hurt. “What?!”

“Dianxia…” Xie Lian sighs, his voice tired. “I’ve little left to teach you.”

“That’s not true!” The prince protests. “I still need more time! I need—!”

I need you.

That’s what he tried to say.

Before a servant walked into his chambers, interrupting him.

Before his Guoshi gently patted his hand, reassuring him—

“We can talk more, after the banquet.” Fangxin reassures him gently, rising to his feet. “I don’t want to spoil your birthday.”

“…Okay.”

That’s right.

Today is his Seventeenth Birthday—and tonight, is his Gilded Banquet.

The servants usher him out, to prepare him for a day of activities—and he doesn’t get the chance to do more than spare one last look over his shoulder, and…

Fangxin Guoshi seems as lonesome as ever.

Xie Lian, as one might expect, isn’t particularly fun at parties.

He used to be. There was a time when he could dazzle the room, swirling about in brightly colored robes, jewels glittering in his hair, charming generals and foreign dignitaries alike.

Now, he’s a wallflower.

Watching as people in golden robes and masks—much like his own, but far more gaudy—dance and drink, making merry.

Ironically, it does seem to be an attempt to mimic the festivals they used to hold in Xianle.

Xie Lian tries not to feel bitter, but it’s more of a cheap imitation.

But that’s the point. Gilded.

The gold here isn’t real. Not most of it, anyway.

But the irony—it lies in the fact that Xie Lian can hear it, right now—as one of the King’s generals tries to goad him into another purge.

That’s a delicate way of phrasing it.

What he really means is that the harvest this year was poor, and no one wants to be another Xianle. Best way to avoid that? Relocating descendants of the former Empire to the border with Banyue.

Border towns with little food, constantly wracked by violent raids.

So, when they say they’re committing a ‘purge,’ or a ‘relocation,’ they really mean that they’re enacting a death sentence.

Mostly against women and children, the elderly. Young men end up conscripted into the Yong’an army.

The current King, however, thinks it’s barbaric.

“They’re our citizens too, now.” He chastises the general, shaking his head. “Anyone who would hold a grudge against them for wars that are four centuries past is out of their mind. Don’t you agree, Guoshi?”

The masked man glances up, startled.

“…Yes, your highness,” he agrees

The general makes a face, clearly annoyed as he stomps off, looking for more wine.

The King of Yong’an looks toward his royal preceptor with a smile. “It’s nice at times, to know that someone thinks I’m not a fool.”

“There is nothing foolish about mercy, your highness.”

The King hums with agreement, looking out over the party. “…I’m grateful, you know.” He sighs. “It seems as though you truly came into our lives at the right time. I…Since my wife, I…”

He starts when Fangxin rests a hand on his elbow, feather light.

“You were grieving.”

The Guoshi murmurs, “No one ever does that gracefully.”

After a moment, the King smiles—and he covers the younger man’s hand with his own. “Maybe so—but you were there for my son in ways I could not be. I’ll always be grateful for that.”

Fangxin offers him a small smile.

The night carries on—with no Lang Qianqiu. It’s traditional for the person the banquet is being held for not to arrive until the peak of festivities, anyway.

Xie Lian, however, is thinking of excuses to leave.

See, most flirting—he can deal with. Particularly from women.

They never really cross a line—and the line of flirtation is never particularly aggressive. It’s easy for Xie Lian to sidestep their inquiries, or gently let them down.

With men, however, it’s far less comfortable.

Particularly this one.

“Guoshi, Guoshi…” The noble smirks.

They’re standing near the wall, with the noble’s hands resting on the marble on either side of Xie Lian’s head, caging him in, “Come now, there’s no need to be such a tease. How long have we been doing this?”

“Too long,” Fangxin replies flatly.

“I couldn’t agree more…”

The man reaches for Xie Lian’s chin, and when the Guoshi pointedly pulls out of his reach, the noble settles for grabbing a longer lock of hair instead, twisting it between his fingers and lifting it to his lips, inhaling deeply.

“Has anyone ever told you that you smell divine?”

Underneath the mask, the god’s eyes are narrowed into a glare. “Has anyone ever told you that it’s dangerous to push a man’s boundaries?”

“Dangerous?” The noble purrs, waggling an eyebrow. “Maybe I like danger.”

“You have three seconds to let go.”

“Or?”

“I’ll break your arm.”

The noble stiffens—then glares. “There’s no need for such violence in response to a proposition, Guoshi. Are you really so ashamed? We both know it’s not because my gender offends you.”

Xie Lian stiffens.

“…No,” he replies, even if that statement makes him feel deep shame.

He often tells himself that he’s come to terms with his own sexuality, and then he hears something like that—that his preference for men is obvious—and the shame and paranoia comes roaring back to life.

Now, he opts for a slightly less aggressive method of denial.

“I can’t.”

“Your cultivation—”

“Leave me physically incapable of what you’re asking for,” Xie Lian explains with an awkward smile. “I’m afraid you’ll have to find another partner.”

To his annoyance, even that doesn’t deter him.

“Ah, is that so? But you see, Guoshi…” He leans closer.

“For what I have in mind, you don’t necessarily need to…perform,” he murmurs. “And we can both enjoy ourselves nonetheless. How does that sound?”

Xie Lian’s brow furrows beneath his mask—

What on earth is he talking about?

After sleeping in so many alleyways, Xie Lian would consider himself somewhat knowledgeable on intercourse, despite having absolutely no experience himself.

He’s blind after all, not deaf—and he’s heard quite a bit.

He’ll be honest, most of it didn’t sound very enjoyable.

And on the rare occasion that it was between two men, it was always with hands and mouths, and Xie Lian can’t exactly imagine a way he could enjoy that under such circumstances.

In truth, Xie Lian has come to the conclusion that he probably wouldn’t enjoy any of it at all.

While he’s been in love before—those circumstances never allowed him to feel…that sort of desire for the object of his affections. And since then…

Xie Lian hasn’t felt anything close to temptation. Maybe once, one flickering thought while he was kissing Wu Ming, but that…

Xie Lian’s not particularly proud of his motivations, back then. The context behind what he almost asked the savage ghost to do.

And it wouldn’t have been out of real desire—it would have only been out of a need to give something away willingly before Bai Wuxiang could take it.

“…I’d still rather not,” The Guoshi finally speaks again, his voice less firm than before—but not because of this man, no.

He’s simply distracted by his own memories, as he often is.

“…Fangxin Guoshi, no need to be so—”

A hand lands heavily on his shoulder.

“How about this,” a voice speaks lowly, and Xie Lian is almost startled by the tone of it. “If you don’t let him go, he might break your arm—but I’m going to cut off your head. How does that sound?”

The noble—an arrogant man by the name of Tan Xiaodan—stiffens

“D…Dianxia, I…”

Xie Lian doesn’t think, in all of the years he’s been teaching Lang Qianqiu, he’s ever heard the boy speak like that.

“Get out of my sight, before I change my mind,” the prince snarls.

The noble lets Xie Lian go in an instant, stumbling away with a few rapid apologies.

“…It’s bad luck to be early for your own gilded banquet,” the Guoshi murmurs, his head turned in Tan Xiaodan’s direction, like he’s watching him go. “You aren’t due for another half an hour.”

“…I know,” the prince agrees, sheepish. “But I needed to speak with you.”

“About?”

“…Not here,” Lang Qianqiu shakes his head. “Could we go somewhere quiet? The garden, maybe?”

Xie Lian can’t imagine what the prince wants, but, given what he said during their last conversation—he can’t imagine this will end well.

“I already said we could speak about it tomorrow,” The Guoshi mutters, tilting his face down, golden mask flashing under the candle light. “I don’t want to ruin—”

“You want ruin my birthday,” Lang Qianqiu shakes his head, “I promise! I just…this is really important.”

“Your highness—”

“Please?” He pleads.

“…” Xie Lian lets out a heavy sigh.

“Alright.”

He offers his wrist, allowing himself to be led through the crowd, out of the cheerful murmur of the ballroom, away from the music and the dancing.

Finally, they reach the garden.

There’s something off about the prince this evening. Something fidgety and nervous. Xie Lian doesn’t comment, only follows along.

“Here, ah—you sit here, alright Guoshi?” The hand on his wrist guides him to take a seat on a marble bench.

They’ve been here many times before.

Since Lang Qianqiu was barely more than a child. Now, he’s taller than Xie Lian—and broader too, awkwardly pacing while Xie Lian sits.

“What is it?”

“I—ah, well—” The prince swallows dryly, and Xie Lian arches an eyebrow.

Why is his heart beating so fast?

“I think I know your secret,” Lang Qianqiu mutters, and the Guoshi goes very still. “Why you don’t get close to anyone—why you’re always pushing me away, why you’re so sad all the time, I get it now.”

“Your highness—”

“It’s because you’re a descendent of Xianle, right?”

His teacher doesn’t move, and he doesn’t speak.

Lang Qianqiu’s gaze softens. “So, it is true.”

“I—”

“That doesn’t make a difference to me,” the prince explains quickly, and Xie Lian—he feels it when the boy sets something in his lap, and when he reaches to see what it is…

Flowers.

The Guoshi’s eyes soften underneath his mask, fingertips stroking over the petals.

Lang Qianqiu brought him flowers.

Xie Lian almost feels guilty, because the prince doesn’t know it—but his Guoshi is incapable of seeing how beautiful they are. The array of colors.

“I don’t care who your family was,” the prince explains, “or where you come from. None of that makes any difference to me.”

“…” Xie Lian’s fingers tighten around the stems. “Your highness is very kind, but why are you telling me this now?”

Lang Qianqiu’s heart beats faster.

“…Because I…” He clears his throat—and again, just like this morning, he’s clearly trying to make his voice sound far deeper than it actually is. “Today is my birthday.”

“…Right,” his teacher agrees slowly.

“And I, well,” the prince makes a point of rising to his full height

Not realizing that this is a futile effort, because his teacher cannot see the posturing that the young man is currently projecting.

“I’m a man now.”

Xie Lian accidentally lets out a small chuckle, and the prince deflates.

“Guoshi! It’s true! I’m of age now. Don’t laugh!”

“I—” Fangxin Guoshi cracks a small smile, shaking his head. “You’re right, dianxia. I’m sorry. You’re a man now.”

The way he says it—it makes the prince feel like he’s being placated, but he’s too far gone to turn back now.

He sucks in a deep breath.

Then, he offers a gesture that is so meaningful, for royalty. One that Xie Lian is startled by, the moment Lang Qianqiu does it—because he understands the seriousness of it.

Lang Qianqiu drops to his knees before his Guoshi.

He reaches for Xie Lian’s hands, gripping them firmly—but with a gentleness that actually makes something in the god’s heart move.

It’s been a long time, since he didn’t fear someone touching him gently.

But slowly—ever so gradually—something has been building between them:

Trust.

“…To me, Guoshi is the strongest, most capable—and most beautiful person in the entire world,” The prince explains earnestly, and while Xie Lian isn’t afraid—

His stomach begins to sink.

“And I—I’m getting stronger every day. You still think I can ascend, right?”

…Oh dear.

“I do,” Xie Lian agrees cautiously.

“When I do, I can appoint you as my deputy,” the prince explains. “And we can go to the heavens together. You could see General Nan Yang again, and keep teaching me—”

The God’s heart aches.

“…And I can protect you.”

Lang Qianqiu is so earnest in everything he does—and now is no different. “I meant it, when I made that promise. I won’t let anyone hurt you, Guoshi. Not ever again.”

Slowly, his lips trembling with nerves, he lifts their joined hands—and kisses the one of Xie Lian’s knuckles.

Xie Lian is silent, working through many different emotions—almost none of them pleasant, but…

This isn’t about him.

Actually—this moment is far more significant to the young man before him than it could ever be for Xie Lian, and so—he tries to take it seriously.

And gently.

“…Is there something that you want to ask me, Lang Qianqiu?” He murmurs, his voice so soft—and the prince nods, his hands shaking slightly with the nerves, but holding onto Xie Lian’s so tenderly.

“Would you just…let me?” The prince whispers. “Let me protect you?”

Fangxin squeezes his hands gently. “I’d be a sore excuse for a teacher, if I allowed my student to shield me from the world.”

The prince swallows dryly, filled with determination as he kisses Xie Lian’s hand again. “You were the one who said you didn’t have more to teach me.”

“I did…”

“So, don’t stay by my side as my teacher, then.” Lang Qianqiu murmurs. “Stay as the state preceptor, and…as…as my…”

He stops when Fangxin pulls one of his hands away—only to cup the prince’s cheek—so gently.

“…Guoshi?”

“You used to be so little,” he whispers.

Like a tiny little bird, flapping around in the rafters. Singing nonsensical little songs and following him around, flapping his half grown wings. “When did you grow up?”

The prince’s cheeks flush slightly, not sure as to whether or not he’s being rejected.

Xie Lian’s thumb strokes his cheek for a moment longer, looking for the right words to say—

And then he goes still, his head whipping in the opposite direction, posture suddenly stiff.

The prince stares up at him, confused. “…Guoshi—?”

“Stay here.”

The Guoshi rises to his feet, carefully tucking the flowers into his robes, and his student watches him with confusion. “I don’t—?”

“Stay here,” Xie Lian repeats, his voice suddenly hard and stern. “And don’t move until I come and find you again.”

“But—!”

“Do as I say!”

He couldn’t hear what his Guoshi did, his ears were never quite so sensitive, so…

The Crown Prince of Yong’an never heard the screaming.

When Xie Lian left this place, only minutes before—it was a gleaming show of wealth and prestige.

Now, it’s a bloodbath.

Not so dissimilar from the day that Xie Lian and Lang Qianqiu met—the kidnapping attempt, but this…

This is a massacre.

By the time the Guoshi enters the room, the floors are already slick with blood, the stench of it filling the air. The clash of swords.

And the screaming.

From the sound of it—there are very few attendants from the original banquet that are actually left alive, but—

But still, Xie Lian tries.

His blade appears in his hand—dark, like black jade, gleaming with sharpness.

There are twenty five attackers remaining.

Before, Xie Lian faced the same number with nothing more than a tree branch and little motivation to speak of.

Now, with a blade in his hand and sadness in his heart—because, in the last five years, he had come to know these people well—

Xie Lian slaughters them.

He’s quick about it, flashing from one enemy to the next, his blade moving so sharply, it’s invisible to the human eye.

And internally, he curses himself for not listening more closely. For being distracted, if only for a brief moment.

How could this happen?

How could Xie Lian have allowed it to happen?

He dispatches the last one, wiping the blood from his blade as he listens closely, trying to find survivors—and the sound of one voice makes his heart sink.

“G-Guoshi…” He rasps.

It’s the King of Yong’an.

The God is at his side in an instant, quickly checking his body for wounds, and…

When he feels the gash in the king’s stomach, his heart plummets even further.

Maybe he could survive, if he was lucky. But he’s losing so much blood…

“What happened here?” Xie Lian whispers.

The King clutches his wrist weakly, his breathing ragged.

This will be a long, painful death. Xie Lian can feel that. Can see how deeply the king is suffering already, each intake of air deeply labored. “X…Xianle…”

The god’s eyes widen sharply.

“It was rebels…from Xianle…”

“…That can’t be right,” the Guoshi mutters, cradling his king in his arms. “Your highness, you said it yourself. It’s been centuries. Holding onto such a grudge would be—”

“Madness?!” The King chokes, blood streaming down his chin. “They identified themselves when they came!”

Still, it doesn’t make any…

“Guoshi…” The King clutches at the front of Xie Lian’s robes, staining them with blood. “You must…we have to…protect…Lang Qianqiu…”

On that, the god immediately agrees. “I—”

The next words the King says, however, make his blood run cold.

“Tell…tell the guards to purge them all,” the King whispers. “N…Not just a few cities. All of them. I—”

Xie Lian’s hands begin to tremble.

“I want them all gone.”

For a moment, the Guoshi doesn’t react.

“My son…he…won’t be safe…until they’re all…gone…”

But that isn’t exactly true. Xie Lian knows that much all too well.

What the King is asking him to do—

It would ruin Lang Qianqiu’s future. Stain it with blood. Curse him to live with that guilt. That responsibility.

And even if that weren’t true…

Xie Lian can’t allow it.

Because it’s genocide.

And he promised himself—no matter the personal cost—

He wouldn’t hurt people again.

But—in this case, the alternative is…

An awful choice.

Reminiscent of the sort that Bai Wuxiang would have forced him to make, all those years ago.

“…Guoshi?” The King whispers, eyes unfocused. “D…Did you hear me?”

“…” Xie Lian leans his face close, his hair shielding them both from prying eyes.

He wanted to kill a King of Yong’an once.

A selfish, confusing man. Xie Lian used to think that he hated Lang Ying.

Maybe he needed to hate him, back then. Needed someone to blame.

But in the end, he was just weak.

A coward, who needed to live with his ghosts—so he dragged the entire world down with him.

But he was just a pawn of Bai Wuxiang in the end. Xie Lian wasn’t any better.

He doesn’t hate Lang Ying now. Just pities him. And maybe, to some extent—he understands him.

“…I’ll make sure the prince is alright,” Xie Lian whispers, making a solemn promise. “And I’ll find and deal with the ones who are responsible for this. You have my word.”

The King nods weakly, and for a moment, Xie Lian hopes he can avoid staining his hands once more, but…

“And…t…the order,” he whispers. “Bring…one of the guards…so I can…”

The Guoshi grits his teeth.

“F…Fangxin?”

Xie Lian doesn’t want to hurt anyone anymore.

But he can’t allow this.

The blow is quick. Xie Lian pinches a pressure point near the juncture of the King’s shoulder as he does it.

He doesn’t feel it. Doesn’t suffer when the dark steel of the blade pierces his heart.

It’s a painless death, one without fear.

A mercy.

Until Xie Lian hears that awful scream.

Not from him. Not from the king.

But from the door to the banquet hall.

“FATHER!”

At first, the prince doesn’t understand what he’s seeing.

When he sees the Guoshi and the King on the ground together, he thinks they’re both gone.

That everyone in his life he has ever loved has been taken from him.

Until Lang Qiangqiu watches Fangxin rise to his feet.

Until he sees the blade sticking out of his father’s chest.

It’s one that the prince knows quite well.

At first, he can’t bring himself to believe it.

“You…” Lang Qianqiu whispers, trying to see through the smoke and the blood.

At some point, someone must have set a fire.

“You didn’t…”

That golden mask stares back at him blankly, stained with blood.

His father’s blood.

“…You wouldn’t!” the prince chokes, tears falling.

Xie Lian stood in a palace once. Just like this one.

Standing over a dead king as his palace began to burn.

Listening as a crown prince cried out with horror.

“…Wu Ming,” the god whispers, fingers trembling where they grip the hilt of his sword. “What did I do?”

No one answers him now, and after a moment—Xie Lian remembers that this isn’t a memory. Or a nightmare.

This is really happening.

Wu Ming is gone. And Xie Lian—

His throat tightens with emotion.

“YOU WOULDN’T!” Lang Qianqiu sobs, fighting his guards as they restrain him.

He watches his teacher’s form, still standing over his father’s body, dripping with blood—gripping the handle of the blade that is still buried in the King’s chest. “GUOSHI!”

Xie Lian’s heart cracks.

He hurt someone again.

“WAIT!” The prince cries, fighting to get to him.

“JUST EXPLAIN, I KNOW THAT YOU WOULDN’T—!”

But he did.

And that becomes clear when the blade is yanked from his father’s chest, blood spattering across the floor.

The prince freezes, falling silent.

And Xie Lian is left with another awful choice.

To protect Lang Qianqiu’s memory of this father, and his future—or to avoid breaking his heart.

One of those things can be healed from. The other cannot be undone.

He sheathes Fangxin without a word—

And he disappears into the smoke, the prince’s sobs and screams following.

He didn’t want to believe it.

He desperately didn’t want to think that it was true.

But there was no alternative explanation left behind.

Only blood, massacre, and death.

With it, the young man’s heart shattered.

And Xie Lian knew exactly where to go.

There was one person missing from the feast that night, his absence notable. After all, he was the crown prince’s closest friend.

And he was also the one person in the Court of Yong’an that Xie Lian never trusted.

An Le.

There’s something almost reminiscent about this.

Arriving in a fine manor, decked out for a party—but no guests.

Just one man, sitting alone at his table.

Gleefully reading the reports of the deaths of the Yong’an nobility. Only one survivor—a naive, foolish little crown prince who won’t make it far.

“Why?”

He looks up with a start—only to see the bloodstained mask standing across the table from him.

And An Le smiles, his expression vaguely bitter. “I should have known that it would have been you,” he mutters, setting the reports aside. “You never did like me, Fangxin Guoshi.”

The older man doesn’t answer, his expression hidden.

“Answer me.”

“…Because it’s my birthright,” the human shrugs, throwing his hands up, watching the Guoshi’s lips twitch with surprise, and he smirks. “My family name? It’s Xie. Xie An Le. My parent’s weren’t subtle, huh?”

He tilts his head back, watching the candlelight dance across the ceiling. “Yong’an took everything from us. And for what? That’s the thing that everyone forgets about the story.”

He clicks his tongue woefully.

“My ancestor—the one everyone loathes—he tried to help Yong’an.”

Fangxin doesn’t speak, just allows hm to go on.

“And look how they thanked my family for it. Are they any better now? No. They’re worse than Xianle ever was. They deserve to rot. If it wasn’t for what they did, I’d be the Crown Prince now. How is that fair?” He muses.

“How is it fair that, that little idiot gets to be king, and I’m…what? His second fiddle? After what my family has endured? No. No—I wouldn’t allow that.” An Le shakes his head, fully prepared to die now, expecting that’s why the Guoshi has come. “So, go on.”

He lifts his chin, resolved. “If you’ve come to kill me, go on and do it. I have no regrets.”

But the blow doesn’t come.

Instead, the he hears the sound of a mask falling to the floor with a clatter.

And when he looks up—For the first time, he sees the face of Fangxin Guoshi.

Young, handsome. No—handsome isn’t the right word. It doesn’t quite do it justice.

His face is too perfect, too delicate to be called handsome. There’s not a single flaw in his features to be found, no—

Beautiful is the word.

But his eyes are the most striking.

Burning under the candle light, glowing with a pattern that An Le knows to be inhuman, something of magic.

How, he wonders now, did no one ever notice that the Imperial Preceptor was a blind man?

“It was my birthright,” the figure finally replies, his voice low.

“…What?”

“The throne of Xianle,” he explains. “It was my birthright, not yours.”

An Le stares for a moment, struggling to put the pieces together, but—Then, he understands what he’s looking at.

A god. A blind one, no less. And—

A cursed shackle.

“…It’s you?” He whispers, eyes wide.

No one has heard from the god of misfortune in many, many years. Some assumed that he had faded away long ago.

“You were there for the same reason as me, then,” An Le breathes, his eyes widening with excitement. “For revenge, right? You can help me—!”

Then, he falls silent.

The sword in Xie Lian’s hand has now been raised, leveled directly at the young man’s chest.

“You know nothing.”

Now, he can see it in the god’s eyes.

Wrath.

A horrible, almost frightening level of wrath.

“None of those things happened to you,” Xie Lian whispers.

“I…”

“They happened to me.”

Xie Lian was the one who was hated, cursed, and banished. His parents were the ones that were left to flounder and die and squalor. His friends were the ones who were forced to watch him suffer.

His Hong-er was the one who died to protect him.

“You speak as though you have been fighting in a war…” Xie Lian mutters, knuckles white where he grips his blade. “But you have only ever lived in a time of peace.”

Peace that, in many ways, Xie Lian sacrificed everything to provide.

“I’m—”

“You’re a murderer.”

The Crown Prince of Xianle rises to his full height—which has never been the most imposing thing about him, but he seems to tower now.

“You sit here, speaking of birth rights—you aren’t even a direct descendent. Just some distant cousins, centuries after the fact.”

“I—!”

“I never fathered any children,” Xie Lian explains. Knowing that he had never planned to, given his own circumstances. A fact that saddened him, for a time. “And I never will. The Royal Bloodline ends with me.”

“The House of Xie—”

“Is my Clan.” Xie Lian glares. “Not yours.”

He doesn’t speak their language. Likely doesn’t even know any of their rituals, songs, or stories.

Was born in a time when Yong’an was all he knew.

What could he possibly be mourning?

What right does he have, to feel robbed of anything?

It’s just an excuse for murder.

“There were children,” Xie Lian mutters, eyes somehow managing to burn brighter. “Children died tonight.”

“I didn’t—”

He falls silent, when the tip of fangxin presses against his ribs.

The wrath in those eyes burns like a small sun.

“You don’t get to do that,” the god snarls.

“You don’t get to use what happened to me as an excuse to hurt children.”

It might be something that An Le feels ownership over. His ancestry. His history.

But it’s Xie Lian’s life, his pain, and it’s his own.

“But we’re…” An Le stares up at him, his eyes lost “We’re family!”

No.

You choose your family. Xie Lian learned that long ago.

Casting one vile cousin aside. Accepting a boy with nothing, who came from nothing, into the deepest recesses of his heart.

“If this is what my family has become,” the god mutters, “then I would rather be the last.”

Fangxin vibrates in his hold.

It’s a rare technique, one that Xie Lian thought he would never need to use, but…

Vile as he is, if anyone ever learned the truth of An Le’s actions, it would still come back down on the descendants of Xianle.

And…it would hurt Lang Qianqiu.

An Le got so close to the boy, before the end. Learning the truth now, just like learning the truth of what happened to his father…

It would hurt the crown prince. Break his faith in people a little more.

When they find An Le, it will look like a disease took him, not a blade.

And the truth of his sins will be lost to time.

Maybe it’s more than he deserves, but…this isn’t about that.

This is about protecting someone else. The only innocent party in all of this sadness.

But even still—

There’s one thing left that Fangxin Guoshi must do.

It takes some time, for the Prince to find him. Not because the Guoshi was hiding, no.

But because it takes time, to face the things that you’re afraid of. Even as you boast and cry out to your people about taking revenge—

You’re still afraid of what awaits you.

In all honesty, even when he did find Fangxin Guoshi—months after the Gilded Banquet, sitting at the top of a hill—the Crown Prince of Yong’an still didn’t want to believe the truth.

He’s alone, just as he’s always been.

Sitting on a rock, facing away from the prince.

The wind blows gently through his hair.

Still, like always—he wears that mask. Hiding him away from the world—and, by extension, his student.

“…I wondered when you would come,” he murmurs—and the prince trembles, gripping his blade tightly.

“Are you going to tell me now?”

The Guoshi doesn’t reply, his gaze facing ever forward.

“Why?” The prince presses. He left his personal guards at the foot of the hill, insisting on confronting his teacher alone. “I know you wouldn’t have done something like that—so why?!”

There is no good end to this.

Xie Lian knows, no matter what choice he makes, he’ll end up hurting Lang Qianqiu.

The only thing he can do now is try to make the least painful decision available.

And right now, that seems to be…

Not answering at all.

Instead, he rises to his feet, blade in hand.

Shattering himself, instead of the rest of the prince’s world, seems to be the best option.

“Dianxia,” he murmurs, slowly turning to face the teenager. “What do we do, when faced with the wicked?”

The prince takes a step back, his lips trembling, eyes wide with fear.

In the centuries that follow, this story will be told differently.

A courageous prince, carrying out his revenge against an evil, jealous teacher.

Not a frightened young man, facing down the man who taught him how to weird a bade, tears in his eyes.

“You aren’t wicked.”

He whispers those words, taking a stumbling step back, but…

/CLANG!/

Lang Qianqiu barely manages to deflect the blow, sparks flying from the edge of his blade, eyes wide.

“What do we do,” Xie Lian repeats, their blades crossed as Lang Qianqiu struggles to hold him off.

“When we are faced with the wicked?”

Through clenched teeth, arms trembling as he holds his own, the prince cries—

“Slay them in order to protect the innocent!”

One of many lessons that his Guoshi taught him over the years.

That mask stares back at him. Blank. Cold. Unfeeling

“Then you already know what you must do.”

Xie Lian can see it in the prince’s eyes.

That fragile state of heartbreak. Of trust shattering.

It hurts to see, but he accepts it.

It’s a choice that he made.

The battle is fierce, blades clashing with increasing ferocity.

Not from Fangxin Guoshi, no. His movements are as calm and as measured as ever.

It’s Lang Qianqiu who fights harder, with a fury, tears pouring down his face as he moves faster, more agile by the second, taking in every lesson that he’s ever been taught, moving like a demon.

A far cry from the frightened child he once was, cowering behind his guards.

“How—” He sobs, even as he attacks, “How could you kill him, when you saw how I mourned my mother?!”

That mask never changes.

He’s never given an answer.

“HOW COULD YOU TAKE HIM FROM ME?!”

They clash again, and this time, there’s the distinctive edge of the younger man taking the upperhand.

He’s never been able to beat Fangxin before. Never even came close during their sparring matches. Now, he assumes his passion is what drives him further.

Maybe so.

Xie Lian almost smiles, seeing how much the young man has improved. He has to use one sixth of his strength now, to parry. That’s not bad.

It doesn’t take so much effort to fake it, when his blade is knocked from his hand, landing in the grass a few yards away.

‘You used to be so little.’

/THUMP!/

Under the mask, his eyes widen just a fraction.

‘When did you grow up so fast?’

The blade runs him all the way through before being ripped out, blood pouring down.

It doesn’t hurt. Not exactly.

Not as much as what comes after.

Lang Qianqiu doesn’t let him hit the ground.

He catches his teacher in his arms, sinking to his knees, casting his own weapon aside.

Weeping.

“I…I didn’t want to do that!” The prince sobs, pressing his forehead against a gilded mask. “Why did you make me do that?!”

As far as he knows, the blow he dealt was fatal. And to be fair—Xie Lian does feel a little woozy from how quickly he’s losing blood, his limbs trembling.

Lang Qianqiu clutches him tight against his chest, losing the last loved one he had in this world—this time by his own hand.

“I…I don’t know how to do this,” the prince whimpers, his face pressed into Xie Lian’s hair, fingers trembling as they stroke blood stained locks from his face. “I…I still need…”

I still need you.

A hand lands in his hair, fingers trembling, and he falls silent.

“…You did well, Lang Qianqiu,” his teacher rasps, blood dripping from the corners of his mouth.

Weakly—he ruffles the prince’s hair.

“I’m proud of you.”

Wide, horrified eyes stare down at the Guoshi. Filled with endless pain, confusion, and hurt.

“Why?” He whimpers, shaking.

No matter how many times he asks, the prince never receives an answer—just silence. Maddening, heartbreaking silence.

Xie Lian’s hand starts to fall, lacking the strength to hold itself up any longer.

That really was a powerful blow—he even infused some spiritual power into it.

Xie Lian taught him that, but he’s never managed to do it successfully—not until now.

He isn’t faking the shakes that wrack his body now. It’ll take time, recovering from this.

The prince rocks slowly, holding Xie Lian close, and he whispers—

“…I…I’m so sorry, Guoshi.”

Xie Lian stirs, shaking his head weakly. That—

That wasn’t what he wanted.

“I broke my promise,” the prince mumbles, choking on an endless wave of tears.

‘I won’t ever let anyone hurt you—not ever again.’

For the first time in so long, Xie Lian’s own eyes are wet.

‘Don’t cry for me, little one. I broke mine first.’

“…N…No,” Xie Lian whispers, choking slightly as blood gurgles in his throat. Blindly, he finds Lang Qianqiu’s hand—unable to see how the prince is watching him now—holding it tight.

“I…It’s alright, L…Lang Qianqiu, you…”

Now, he smiles, fingers trembling slightly in his student’s grip, remembering all those years ago, when the prince was so much smaller. How Xie Lian had to coax him into giving his arm the tiniest smack, just to show he was alright.

“You…you can’t hurt me,” he whispers.

That’s when everything starts to blur, his head spinning. Lang Qianqiu’s sobs sound so far away now, and…

He faints, going limp in the prince’s grip, his breaths slowing. Until eventually—it seems like they stop.

The Crown Prince of Yong’an doesn’t know how to let him go.

He sits there, in the grass—his screams piercing the air as he clutches his teacher in his arms, soaked in his blood.

His idol. His trusted advisor. His friend.

His first love.

He doesn’t allow anyone else to handle the Guoshi’s body, even if his guards try to insist.

Lang Qianqiu cradles him in his arms as he carries him back down the hill.

His advisors warn him that a powerful being like Fangxin Guoshi might come back as a powerful ghost. That some with ill intentions might try to summon him back with ill intent.

He won’t allow that.

He looks after the body with great care, combing his hair, changing him into clean robes, but…he leaves the mask in place.

Lang Qianqiu wants to see that face, if only once, but even now…

He’s still a good student, reluctant to disobey his master’s wishes.

But when he does, he discovers—

Flowers.

Petals dried, slightly stained with blood, but familiar.

Lang Qianqiu sinks to his knees, clutching them before his face, lips trembling.

“Why did you keep these?” He whispers, his voice hoarse.

It—

He still struggles to understand.

How someone who looked after him for so long could take everything from him.

How someone who loathed him enough to take everything from him could smile just before his death, and tell Lang Qianqiu that he was proud.

How someone he murdered could die with the Lang Qianqiu’s flowers tucked into his sleeves.

So many questions, leaving a young man feeling so utterly lost and alone in the world.

But his Guoshi gave him few answers in life—and he offers even fewer in death.

The coffin is specially made—to prevent any malicious attempts at resurrection. Partly at Lang Qianqiu’s own request, desiring that his master be allowed to Rest In Peace.

And also, because the people now fear the menace who slaughtered the nobility of Yong’an in a single night.

The place he finds is quiet, on a hill—secluded, unlikely to be disturbed. His men dig the hole deep into the ground as Lang Qianqiu carefully lays Fangxin down, arranging his hair, hands folded over his stomach.

Flowers tucked between them.

The Holly stake wasn’t his idea.

That came from one of the priests, insisting it was the best way to keep him permanently sealed. And Lang Qianqiu—

He wanted to burst out crying all over again, plunging it into Fangxin’s heart, staking him to the bottom of the coffin.

Later, he would lie to himself.

When his grief turned to anger, confusion, and regret—he would say that he did this out of cruelty. As punishment, for the havoc that this man wreaked on his life.

From the permanent scar that his loss would leave on the prince’s heart.

But at the time…he was only heartbroken.

The priest—the only one that was willing to assist him in giving the Guoshi funeral rites—stands by his side, leaning over to look inside the coffin, expression contemplative.

“Red robes were an interesting choice,” he comments. “He looks…almost like a bridegroom.”

The prince doesn’t reply. Only offers up a small shrug.

A white and gold mask is replaced with a funeral veil, that, in truth, almost looks bridal.

Even still, he never looks at the Guoshi’s face.

For just a moment, they’re left alone one last time.

The young man who kneels beside Xie Lian’s coffin isn’t a boy anymore. Or a student. He isn’t even a prince.

He’s a King now. The last Lang who will rule over the Kingdom of Yong’an.

But he will never marry, not in the years before his ascension. Will sire no children.

Carefully, he lifts one limp hand from the coffin, pressing a kiss against those knuckles one last time.

“…I’m sorry,” he murmurs, carefully laying that hand back down, arranging it with the flowers once more.

He broke his promise, after all. But…

The coffin is sealed, all three layers—and buried deep into the ground, with mounds of earth poured over it, locking it in place.

No one will hurt his Guoshi again. Whatever his reasons were for doing what he did. For making Lang Qianqiu do what he had to do.

He’ll protect him.

Eventually, he leaves the gravesite. Isolated, intentionally unmarked. And he tries to put this time behind him. To tell himself that it’s over now, and leave that part of his life behind.

But in the end, part of him always remembers.

And he’s the one that is left haunted.

When Xie Lian wakes again, it’s to a very different kind of darkness.

Not the kind that he’s used to.

This feels heavy, almost suffocating. But eventually he realizes—there just isn’t any air.

Panicked, his fingers scramble, and—

The chain around his neck is still there.

The god lets out a shaky breath, stroking his fingertips over the ring, his other hand feeling around in the darkness, feeling only wood in every direction, and eventually, he realizes—

It’s a coffin.

He—

He’s in a coffin.

Buried alive.

At first, he doesn’t panic. Not exactly.

His body is still healing from the blow, after all—and while it’s hard to breathe, he…he just has to wait.

Xie Lian grips Hong-er’s ring tighter between his fingers, lips trembling.

He’s never minded being a little cramped.

And he’s relieved that, even though everything else was changed and his sword was taken, Lang Qianqiu left Hong-er with him.

He knew how precious the ring was to Xie Lian. It was kind of him not to take it.

So many centuries on earth have also taught the god patience.

It took him an entire week to notice the stake.

A week of laying there, fading in and out of unconsciousness from a lack of air, only to realize that he’s not dreaming, and he’s still—

He’s still trapped.

Eventually, his legs started to kick out, feeling for the dimensions.

The coffin was a little wide and long for him, tall enough that he should have been able to roll over, but—

When he tried, he couldn’t.

There was something locking him into place. A vague, dull sort of ache. One that he barely noticed until now, fingers fumbling in the dark.

It’s not until then that they wrap around the stake sticking out of his chest—and Xie Lian realizes why his body has been so slow to heal.

Because his heart is slowly, constantly reconstructing around the stake running through it, burning his energy and healing capacity.

Trembling, he tries to yank it out, but—it’s buried so deeply into the coffin underneath him, and his wounds are so serious, and he can’t get any leverage—

Xie Lian can’t pull it out.

He can’t—

After three weeks, it really starts to dawn on him:

He can’t get out.

And in this small, confined space—

Xie Lian already couldn’t see, but he’s robbed of the sense he’s spent so long depending on, to fill in the gaps of his world.

Sound.

There’s nothing down here but endless, oppressive silence.

Finally, he lets out a strangled whimper.

“…Ruoye,” he finally speaks—and after so long of being forced to hide around his neck, the silk band trembles. “H-help me…” He rasps, squirming—blood dripping down his chin whenever he agitates the stake.

The spiritual tool slithers out from around his neck.

/THUD!/

It tries to slam itself against the roof of the coffin—but it’s not like a blade. It can’t use nearly as much force without the ability to build momentum.

/THUD!/

/THUD!/

/THUD!/

Maybe, in a normal coffin—it would have been effective, but now…

It doesn’t do much of anything, no matter how long or how hard the spiritual device tries.

Eventually, Xie Lian croaks, “J…Just stop,” he mumbles, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. “You should rest, it’s no use.”

Trembling, Ruoye returns, nuzzling under his chin.

“I…It’s alright,” Xie Lian tries to reassure it, stroking his fingers over the silk band weakly, staring into the dark. “You…did your best, it’s…not…your fault.”

The bandage quivers against him, miserable about it’s own uselessness.

His first breaking point is two months in

When he starts crying hysterically, clawing at the underside of the coffin lid, screaming until his throat goes raw, until there isn’t enough oxygen left for him to make a sound, begging someone to save him.

Until his fingernails break and bleed, skin left raw to the bone.

But no matter how hard he fights, no matter how loudly he screams, no one ever comes. The coffin never breaks.

And he tries so hard not to, to be brave, to not cry out for his help, but—

After eight months, he cries out for Jun Wu.

Prays fiercely, writing around the stake.

Help me.

Help me.

Help me, help me, help me.

Help me, help me, help, help, help, help, help, help, help, help, help, help, help, help, help, help me!!!!

Why won’t anyone help him?

Why does no one ever answer him?

He sobs hysterically, pounding his fists.

Does he…is it…

…Does Xie Lian deserve this?

That’s what he starts to think after five years, palms pressed flat against the coffin lid.

How could anyone ever be so hated, so alone and abandoned, if they didn’t deserve it?

And why is he alone?

Wasn’t that his own doing?

He pushed everyone away. He got Hong-er and Wu Ming killed.

He asked for these shackles, the ones that keep him bound here now.

Wasn’t this his own doing?

Wasn’t he the one who left the feast unprotected? Was he not the one who broke a young man’s heart so deftly?

Xie Lian stops praying, not long after that. He knows why no one will answer him. Knows why he’s alone.

Because he does deserve this.

If he can’t go to hell, then he can have the next best thing.

Like the rest of his centuries of life, the god falls into phases.

He goes an entire year without moving. Laying limp against the wooden floor of the coffin, feeling the earth move around him.

His hearing sharpens to the point where he can hear rodents and insects burrowing into the earth.

Just that sound feels like company, after a decade.

But every now and again, that panic swells back up, and his mind breaks all over again, shattering to pieces in this small, dark space that he’s trapped in.

Where he’ll sob, and scream, and claw. There are deep gauges in the coffin lid now, stained with his blood.

He’ll become too exhausted to move before long, choking on the vacuum inside the coffin, tears pouring down his cheeks.

Ruoye is the only thing that ever calms him down. Gently rubbing over his face, wrapping around his hands, trying to imitate a comforting embrace.

But even then, it doesn’t stop the god from weeping.

In his less lucid moments, even now, well over five centuries old, he weeps for his mother.

Thrashing, head whipping around, lacking all sense or real consciousness.

“Mom? I—why is it dark?!” He cries, his legs flailing.

Why can’t he see anything? Where’s Feng Xin? Why has no one come to wake him up yet?

Why can’t he move? Where’s his father? He’s screaming so loud, why is no one coming?

Is he dead?

He didn’t think dying would last so long, or hurt so much.

It always looked so easy.

But his mind always comes back eventually, and he realizes—

His mother isn’t answering him, because she’s dead.

She hung herself, with the silk bandage that’s comforting him now.

That’s why his father is gone too, for the very same reason.

Feng Xin is gone because Xie Lian broke his heart and sent him away.

Hong’er isn’t here because Xie Lian was too careless. Not sending him away, like he should have. Not protecting him well enough.

Wu Ming is gone because Xie Lian was hateful, and he was selfish.

He’s blind, because he chose to wear these shackles as penance.

He’s alone, because he deserves to be.

He’s here because of his own failures. And all he could do to comfort his student was allow Lang Qianqiu to murder and bury him.

So many years pass, and he has no idea.

There’s no way of counting the days. No means of keeping track of time anymore. He’s lost all sense of it.

His only comfort comes from his dreams—but even then, eventually those grow hollow.

Because even as he clings to Hong’er, he knows.

Knows he’ll wake up to darkness.

“What’s wrong?” He whispers, holding Xie Lian against his chest, stroking his hair.

The god can’t manage to lift his head from Hong’er’s shoulder, crying silently, shaking all over.

“Dianxia…” Lips press against his hair. “Just tell me what’s wrong.”

“I can’t die,” Xie Lian replies, his voice lacking any semblance of humanity, hope, or life.

It’s just an empty shell. A flat note being played without meaning.

The younger man goes still against him.

“…Don’t say that,” he whispers, hugging his god fiercely.

“Don’t ever say that.”

Xie Lian is limp in his hold. Can’t do much more than just lean against him and cry. Not sob, or weep. He doesn’t have the energy for that anymore.

Tears just slip from his eyes like rain, gently drizzling down.

“It would be better than this.”

“Better than what?”

“…Being trapped,” the god mumbles, feeling Hong’er stiffen with worry, but…

Before he can ask more, the dream dissolves again.

The good dreams are brief lately. Few and far between.

Most of the time, Xie Lian is left with nightmares.

And while he forgets his dreams, he always remembers his nightmares.

Sometimes, he’s running down a mountain, screaming Hong’er’s name, shivering from the cold, desperately wondering why the boy won’t answer him.

Or he’s chained down in a temple, blindly flinching from the next slice of a blade that’s always coming. And he knows, no matter how many times he begs for it to stop, it won’t.

There are nights when he’s back in his old house, and all he can hear is that…

That creaking sound.

But eventually, after running through them so many times, he just…

Falls into it.

Walks blindly through the mountain path, following the exact trail to Hong’er’s body, one that he knows well from walking so many times.

He doesn’t flinch from the stabs of the blade anymore.

He just lays limp in Bai Wuxiang’s arms. Sometimes, he even turns into it when the calamity strokes his cheek, allowing himself to find comfort in it.

Why shouldn’t he? It doesn’t matter.

All he has to do is lay there and count.

Just to one hundred.

There are worse things.

When he hears that creaking sound, he just reaches up, grasping the hands dangling in front of him.

“Hi, mom,” he mumbles, his voice low and empty, squeezing her fingers. “Hi, dad.”

And it’s fine, that it hurts.

Fine, that he’s alone.

Because he deserves this.

⏳ YEAR FIVE HUNDRED AND NINETY NINE ⌛️

“Hey—did someone say you could take a break?!” The foreman snarls. “Move your asses, you aren’t getting paid to sit around!”

One of the workers groans, rubbing his lower back, grabbing at his shovel once more.

“Fucking bastard…”

They’ve been working on digging out the foundations for the new villa all month, round the clock. He could stand to give them a break, right?

“Hey, boss!” A voice cries out before the foreman can respond, “We found something!”

He leans back with a frown. “What is it?”

“Uh…” The worker stops, scratching the side of his head. “It kinda looks like a coffin? But I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“…A coffin?” The foreman frowns, shoving his paperwork aside as he follows his employee towards the center of the worksite. “There’s no graveyard.”

But when he approaches—it certainly looks like one, and all of his men…

They look absolutely terrified.

“What’s gotten into—?”

/Thud./

The foreman stops, staring down at the box.

/Thud./

Well.

/Thud./

That explains why…they’re…

“Is something…moving in there?!”

Everyone scrambles back, but…

Originally, hoping it was some sort of buried treasure horde, one of the men has already loosened the locks.

/BOOM!/

The lid swings open with a heavy creak, kicking aside countless layers of earth and dust.

Slowly, a figure sits up.

Honestly, it looks like a monster.

Covered in dried blood, dust, and…and what looks like a bridal gown, dark, impossibly long hair tangled around it’s face, arms red to the elbow, skin impossibly pale, it…

The creature opens it’s mouth, and all they hear is a dull hiss.

No one dares to move, dares to breathe as they watch these hands reach for it’s chest, and—

They all watch as a wooden stake is pulled out, tossed to the ground with a quiet clatter.

One worker lifts a trembling finger, pointing.

“V…V…VAMPIRE!!!”

The screaming starts again.

Everyone flees the scene, running down the hill as fast as their legs will take them.

For one moment of madness, the foreman almost asks them what they’re doing, running off on the job. But…

He takes one more look at that thing, and he starts running too.

For a moment, the god just sits there.

Taking in the sounds of the screams, the footsteps racing down the hill. The breeze on his face.

And warmth.

Xie Lian shivers, tilting his head back.

That’s—?

That’s sunlight.

He’d almost forgotten what it felt like.

Then, he feels something crawling up his arm, slow, tiny little legs.

E—

Eight little legs.

“…AIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEE!”

The men at the bottom of the mountain screech when they hear that scream, running even faster. One even pisses himself.

The coffin is in shambles around him.

Xie Lian trembles, examining the tiny little bite on his forearm with his fingertips, and then—

His shoulders start to shake, and a tiny little giggle slips out. Then a chuckle.

Finally, there’s full blown, roaring laugher as he rolls onto his back in the dirt, howling.

“WHAT THE FUCK?!” He cackles, clutching his stomach, kicking his feet against ground. He can’t imagine what a grotesque sight he makes right now, but—

“HOW?!”

He laughs, laughs until he cries, his ribs aching.

How the fuck, after all of that, is he still afraid of spiders?!

Eventually, he finds a river. Has to sit in it for countless hours, letting the current rub over his skin before there’s any sign of progress, loosening decades worth of mud, dust, and blood.

His hair has grown so long, it actually trails behind him when he walks.

Most of it is so tangled and matted with blood, he ends up going at it with a sharpened rock. Sitting on the riverbank, soaked and shivering, rocking back and forth, trying to self soothe after so many years just…just…

Xie Lian doesn’t have a word for what that was.

He’s suffered before, but never like that.

His body feels shaky and unsteady, like it’s forgotten how to be anything more than a corpse.

And now he sits here, alone, sawing at his hair, trying to cut away what isn’t salvageable, whimpering like a wounded animal.

It takes him time, to remember how to just…be.

Eventually, he manages to bring himself to wash his robes. They aren’t much anymore, but better than going naked.

Wanders into the nearest town, finding a corner to sit on, barely able to do more than beg.

Eventually, an elderly woman takes pity on him. She brings mantou every now and again, takes the time to help him comb out his hair fully, and eventually, when it’s clear nothing more can be done, gives him a proper haircut.

It barely reaches his shoulders, now.

He’s…surprisingly mournful about it, when he remembers the way that Hong’er used to fawn over his hair. Carefully combing it every night before bed, and when he mentioned the ‘type of person’ he liked…

Long, pretty hair. That was what he said. Not everyone has hair like that.

“…I’m sorry I couldn’t save more of it,” the old woman sighs, helping him pull it up and away from his face. “On the bright side—everyone can see how good looking you are now, yes?”

“…” Xie Lian offers a small smile, but it’s awkward.

“It’s…just hair,” he mumbles.

He’s careful, enunciating each syllable slowly.

He had to ask someone the date, and when he did, he realized—

It was a hundred years, give or take. Probably a little more than that.

And in a hundred years, he forgot how to speak to other people.

“It…grows back.”

It’ll be fine, he’ll—

He’ll get better. He always does.

Eventually, he’s able to exchange the bridal robes for a cheap set of cotton clothes. He has no idea what color.

He’ll have to try and find a new loom soon, if he can start scrap collection again. Who knows…

Who knows where it is now. He left it somewhere in the palace of Yong’an. It might have burnt up that night, who can say.

One day, when he’s passing by a temple, he hears people praying to a new martial god—warden of the East.

The Crown Prince of Yong’an, Lang Qianqiu.

Even now, after all of that—the god can’t find it in himself to feel any bitterness. Really—

Can any teacher ever feel bitter, when they see a beloved student do so well?

In time, with his wandering, he turns to the one thing that no one ever allowed him to do, in the old days.

Busking.

Sword swallowing, fire eating, shattering boulders on his chest.

Despite Feng Xin making a scene over not allowing him to do it, he’s not half bad. Even makes a bit of a reputation for himself, wandering the border towns, making children cheer and clap.

It’s all the more impressive when you consider the fact that he’s blind. People pay more.

It’s enough for him to have enough to eat day in and day out. And after a century of no food and water, just having the sun on his skin, the wind on his face, and food in his stomach…

That’s practically paradise. It’s all that he can ask for.

He learns to enjoy the acrobatics shows the most, jumping as high as he can, twirling and flipping in the air as the children gasp with delight, adults breaking into applause.

It’s not much, no.

But it’s living.

It’s enough for him to wake up in the morning with a small smile on his face, stretching his arms over his head, letting out a tired yawn as he reaches for the chain around his neck.

He missed this the most.

“Good morning Hong’er,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss against the metal.

He’s said that one hundred and eighty thousand, seven hundred, and sixty six times now.

“Today is going to be a good day.”

He would have said it more often, but he couldn’t keep track of the days before. Didn’t know if it was morning or night.

So this—this is so much better.

Even when the army shows up, making the elective decision that the local street performer is not, in fact, blind.

If he was, how could he be so good at so many different things? It made no sense.

Xie Lian doesn’t wear Ruoye around his eyes anymore, he can’t.

Human’s cannot be allowed to see cursed shackles. That is part of heavenly law. Ruoye has to cover the shackle around his throat, and Xie Lian’s boots look after the manacle around his ankle.

And when the army demands he open his eyes, he’s forced to refuse to comply.

Naturally, as a result, the presumption is that he’s a liar.

Xie Lian started his life as a prince, but in reality—he’s always been a soldier.

Fighting one battle or another, but the lessons were always the same.

This isn’t new to him. And so, he goes along.

And, in a turn of events that shocks everyone else around him in his platoon—he does incredibly well.

Xie Lian, however, is not particularly surprised.

This isn’t his first war. It isn’t even his 5th.

He’s a skilled fighter, a seasoned strategist. An inspiring leader at times.

He rises quick, obtaining the rank of general—younger than anyone else in the country’s history.

And, in his own fashion—he falls just as fast.

“…People think you’re insane, you know.” One of his men comments, watching as the officer lays back in the grass.

Enjoying the sun.

Xie Lian smiles. It comes easier now, than it used to.

“Sometimes, you have to be,” he sighs, stretching his arms over his head. “You got any extra mantou?”

Instead of immediately offering, the young soldier blurts out—

“Is it true that you’re blind, General Hua?”

“…” Xie Lian sits up. His hair is longer now, and when he doesn’t have a mission, he lets it flow free, tumbling loosely around his shoulders. His armor gleams gently in the sun as he turns his head, offering his subordinate a cheerful smile. “Sure am—now, about that mantou—”

“Wasn’t there a famous blind cultivator named Hua Xie?” Another soldier speaks up, rubbing his chin, and Xie Lian’s smile fades slightly.

“Yeah, I remember something like that…wasn’t he some wandering sage, the one who trained the founder of the Jiang Sect?”

“Yeah…”

Whoops.

“That’s actually an ancestor of mine,” Xie Lian explains, and when he can sense the soldiers looking at one another with confusion, he adds—

“Most men in my family go blind fairly young.”

He’s gotten better at lying over time, especially to people who don’t know him well.

They accept that, but Xie Lian is going to need to come up with a better alias, the next time he needs one. He’s been underground for so long, he forgot what it was like to need to think about that sort of thing.

His time with the army sort of goes by in a bit of a blur.

It’s so soon after he came out of that coffin—he still struggles with his memory. The passage of time—it gets hazy for him. He’ll lose days, even weeks, in a daze.

But some things never change.

That advice that Xie Lian gave Lang Qianqiu? About following the rules of Heaven, even if that meant going against what he believed in?

Yeah, that was more of a ‘do as I say, not as I do,’ sort of order.

Because Xie Lian, even after all these years, can’t seem to cut it out.

He’s still throwing himself in the middle of things, constantly intervening with humans and their battles. Never using an inappropriate amount of force—it’s not like he could, anyway—but—

Xie Lian told himself that he wouldn’t hurt people anymore.

He also won’t stand by.

It makes him popular with the people, but not with his superiors.

It’s not something that Xie Lian ever cared about to begin with—and his fall, it’s in pace with everything else he’s done so far.

He never complains—never feels sorry for himself.

Not even when he’s back as a foot soldier, working to make some crude attempt at soup in his helmet.

“What the hell is that?!” One of his comrades groans, kicking it over. “Who said you could cook on your personal time? That shit looks lethal!”

Xie Lian frowns.

“It’s called seven swans soup!” He huffs. “And it wasn’t finished.”

“…Does it have swans in it?”

The soldier opens his mouth, then shuts it. “Well, no.”

“Then why did you call it that?”

“…Flair?” he offers with a helpless shrug.

“And why seven?”

“…Alliteration?”

“Huh?”

Xie Lian is struggling to explain the finer points of literary devices to a man with hardly more than a primary education, when he hears the helmet rattling on the ground and—little hands pawing at the stew inside.

Oh. Oh no.

“…I wouldn’t do that!” He warns, turning around.

But before he can say more, he already hears the pathetic sounds of retching.

On one hand, he’s dismayed. It’s that bad? Sure, he didn’t expect it to taste good, he’s never had great results, but…

Instant puking? He’s THAT bad?

“Oh, hell…” One of the men grumbles.

“It’s that half breed that’s always in the market.”

Xie Lian pauses, his eyes narrowing.

“…Half breed?” He questions flatly.

“Father was Yong’an, but her mother? She was Banyue. Little piece of—!”

He stops when the former General catches him by the wrist.

“Your watch is about to start,” the young man reminds him with a pleasant smile. “You don’t want to be late.”

His smile is pleasant, his words are pleasant. But the grip on the man’s wrist?

That’s downright unpleasant.

“…Right,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Suppose I do.”

When the others walk away, he turns back towards the sound of the retching—which has now been replaced by tired sniffling, and kneels down.

“…Here,” he murmurs, fumbling in his pocket for a moment—pulling out some mantou. “It’s cold, but…”

She doesn’t hesitate to snatch it.

Xie Lian smiles, listening to her eat voraciously, clearly half starved, but not lacking in spirit.

Good, she might end up alright, then.

From then on, he has a little shadow, trailing behind him at every turn.

And that—that makes him remember a time so long ago.

When he was stumbling around, so lost in the world.

And a little boy would come to the steps of an abandoned shrine to bring him food.

“…” Xie Lian stops in the street, tilting his head back.

It’s started to snow.

Small flakes land on his face, melting against his cheeks.

Grief is a learning process. It’s also—it’s different from a broken bone, something that you can heal from and forget about it.

Xie Lian used to think it was something that he needed to keep on rebreaking, that if it didn’t hurt, remembering Hong’er, then he was forgetting him.

Now, Xie Lian is starting to understand that grief is more like a torn tendon, or a bad knee.

He has good days, and he has bad days. On the bad days, he nurses it. Holds himself close, and clings onto his dreams.

But on the good days?

Remembering Hong’er makes him happy.

He’ll tilt his head back, holding Hong’er’s ashes, and feel the snow on his face, remembering the nights that they used to huddle close next to the fire.

And Xie Lian will smile, because even after every horrible thing that’s happened, this is still the world that gave him that.

It still snows, and the air is biting on his face, but it makes him feel alive.

People are still cruel to one another, but they’re also good, in these brief moments of grace that break Xie Lian in the most beautiful ways, each and every time.

And every time, it reminds him.

When he hears the sound of children playing in the streets, or mothers scolding them to come inside.

Even when he’s stopping different groups of soldiers from killing one another, or slaughtering civilians.

Xie Lian adores this world, in all of it’s cracks and blemishes.

Humans are most beautiful at their points of fracture, because that’s where healing begins.

Courage, his Guoshi used to tell him so many years ago, always grows from the wound.

He remembers that, on his bad days, when the pain is almost to difficult to brace against.

Xie Lian remembers what a spoiled child he used to be, building golden palaces, only to weep when he watched them fall back down. Even though that was the point.

Remembers the arrogant teenager he became, judging the world, foolish enough to think he could change it.

And now, he’s a broken man.

But broken things aren’t worthless. And pain isn’t the same thing as taking a step backward.

Xie Lian—

He’s just growing up. Slower than he has any right to, but he’s getting there.

And sometimes, that hurts.

He takes a seat next to the campfire, his head tilted back so he can enjoy the snow, leaning back against the city walls.

And still, he hears the patter of tiny little feet—probably bare against the cold.

Xie Lian used to be such a brat, he had little patience for children.

Now, he can smile gently, holding up a piece of mantou from the inside of his sleeve, not showing an ounce of displeasure when it’s snatched away.

But now, instead of scurrying away, she sits with him, eating by the fire.

And now, he opens his arms in offering.

It’s cold, after all, and his military uniform is padded and warm, with a cape that can be pulled around them both.

The little one—Banyue, named for her mother’s people—used to be so hesitant. Now, she clamors into his arms, grateful for the warmth.

In all of the time that she can remember—in a short, often unbearably cruel life, this is the place where she’s felt the safest.

Cradled in a blind man’s lap next to a campfire, watching it’s flames crackle and spit sparks as she chews on bits of mantou.

General Hua tells the best stories, some of them unbelievable, others sad. But even when she points that out, he reassures her that the lessons are the point behind them.

Some stories might be sad, but if you learn something—that makes it all worth it.

She tries hard to listen.

The one about the boy in the mountain always makes her cry, but—

The one about the circus, it always makes her laugh. And no matter how sheepish he seems when she asks, General Hua is always ready to tell it again, stroking her hair, his voice soft and calm as she falls asleep.

Some nights, he sings songs in a language that she doesn’t recognize. It almost sounds like the language of Yong’an, but not quite. Like it’s too ancient for her to understand.

When she asks about it, he explains that they’re old lullabies, from his home.

His voice is nice.

She doesn’t know why he’s so kind to her. No one else is, aside from the older boy occasionally lingering in the market place, but she’s the only person that he seems to like.

General Hua always makes sure she has something to eat, and a place to sleep.

No one hurts her, or calls her names when he’s nearby.

He teaches her things. Sometimes silly little games, like building with little stone pebbles, or cat’s in the cradle.

But he also teaches her important things.

Like how to read. How to hold a knife, and hide one away.

One day, when he finds her weeping and beaten in the street, he carries her back to camp, taking the time to patch her up. When she tries to push him away, saying that it doesn’t matter—

The soldier rests both hands on her shoulders firmly, his expression stern.

“Of course it does,” he murmurs, dabbing at the bruises on her cheeks.

“You matter, Banyue.”

It was the first time in the little girl’s entire life, that anyone ever told her that she mattered.

And oh, how her eyes welled up with tears that day, her cheeks splotchy and red.

General Hua never complained. Even offered his sleeve for her to wipe her tears and snot away on.

And he’s the only one who ever speaks to her like she has a future. A real one. Something more than surviving from day to day.

One night, when she’s dozing in his lap, he asks:

“Banyue, what do you want to be when you grow up?”

Her answer honestly startles him. It takes her a while to come up with it, but when she does, she sounds completely resolved.

“A wife.”

General Hua sputters, and he tries not to be judgmental.

“Just a wife?”

“Yes.”

She’s so emphatic, that he has to ask—

“What makes you so sure about it? You’re too young to be thinking about marriage. Or boys at all. They’re not that great, you know.”

“You’re a boy, General Hua.”

He lets out a noncommittal grunt, “They’re more trouble than they’re worth.”

Banyue shrugs, cuddling closer underneath his cloak, until only her eyes and nose poke out, her voice slightly muffled. “Because wives have families. And when you have a family, you’re never alone.”

“…” The General holds her a little closer, his gaze unreadable.

“And they take care of everyone,” Banyue mumbles, “Kind of like you.” She yawns, and her next words—they draw a surprised snort out of the god.

“You’d make a really good wife, General Hua.”

“…” He can’t stop himself from smiling—just a little. “Well, thank you very much.”

She hums, pressing closer. “…What about you?”

“Hmm?”

“What did you want to be, when you grew up?”

When you’re born a prince, that certainly is a complicated question to answer. He never exactly had to think about future career prospects. And then, he was focused on godhood.

Slowly, he tilts his head back into the sky, his breath fogging up in front of him. “…When I was a kid?” He sighs, the firelight illuminating the high points of his face in a warm glow. “…I wanted to save the world,” he admits, knowing how silly that must sound now, but…

Banyue shakes her head, her eyes wide, watching him intently.

“It doesn’t sound silly to me, General Hua.” She mumbles. And—

Xie Lian can’t see her expression, but he can tell from her voice—

Banyue really does believe that he could.

Save the world, and all of that.

Children always tend to think that the people they look up to can do whatever they set their minds to. It’s that believe that makes them so precious, but Xie Lian…

He’s painfully aware of just how fallible he is.

“General Hua?”

“Hmm?”

“Could you tell another story?”

He smiles faintly, settling down a little more comfortably, so she can sit easier in his lap. “Which one?”

“The Goat one!”

“Alright, well—once, there was a shepherd—”

“Wait, actually…” She thinks it over. “The Bridegroom, tell me that one?”

“Are you sure, this time?”

“Yes!”

His fingers twitch, and she swears—somehow, the fire manages to burn just a little brighter.

“Once, a long, long time ago, there was a young man from a small village, and he was good at everything he tried,” Xie Lian murmurs, biting back a small yawn.

“And nobody liked him?” Banyue prompts, more than familiar with the story by now.

Xie Lian smiles faintly, nodding in agreement. “And nobody liked him,” the prince murmurs. “Because they were really very jealous.”

“Not very nice…” She mumbles.

“Not at all,” Xie Lian agrees.

“And it made the young man sad, because he was always alone. Eventually he got so lonely, that he never tried to talk to anyone. And even on festival days, he would go all by himself…”

“Wearing red!” The child interjects, finishing her mantou.

“Wearing red,” the god smiles.

“And one day, when he was watching a parade all by himself on a city wall, he fell down. It was very high, and everyone thought he was going to die, but—”

“The prince caught him!”

“He did,” the sparks from the fire drift lazily in the air before flickering out.

“He was leading the parade, but when he saw the boy falling, he jumped without looking back. And when the prince caught him, the boy in red was so grateful, he wanted to protect the prince in return.”

“So he followed him…”

Banyue never once questioned the fact that the story was about two men. Maybe because she was so young, and Xie Lian spoke about such things like they were normal. It’s difficult to say.

“…and he always thought he was a burden.”

“But he wasn’t!”

“No, he certainly wasn’t.”

“But he never realized—the prince was lonely too, and he was very happy for the company.”

Xie Lian doesn’t know why Banyue always liked this story best, the ending isn’t exactly sad—but it isn’t happy, either.

He explains how the two fell in love, looking after one another.

He closes over the details of the bridegroom’s death, explaining simply that he was buried in red.

And here—this part is where he always fudges the details. Just a little bit.

After all, Hong’er’s story ended that night, but with the way Xie Lian tells it…

He lies a little.

He says that the bridegroom came back as a ghost fire, following his love through the world. Keeping him company through every hardship.

It’s wishful thinking, and maybe a little disrespectful, to combine those memories, but…it’s just a story.

That’s what he tells himself.

Explains that he managed to come back—for just one day, and give his prince a kiss, but then he disappeared again.

“…And why couldn’t they just find each other again?” Banyue yawns, almost asleep.

“Well, you see—the prince had really awful luck,” Xie Lian explains.

“But his love kept on looking for him, still wearing the red robes he was buried in…”

“…Because when they meet again, they’ll get married,” Banyue finishes, a contented smile on her face.

“Why do you like that story so much?” Xie Lian sighs.

“‘Cause it’s really romantic.”

Banyue mumbles, cuddling closer to Xie Lian’s chest, her words slurring a little with her fatigue. “And it sounds like…that one ghost.”

The prince raises an eyebrow, “Which ghost?”

“Y’know…the red…no…crimson…r…” Every pause is punctuated by a yawn, and then she’s snoring.

Xie Lian sighs, pushing all thoughts of ghosts and bridegrooms aside, for now—enjoying the weight of the little girl in his arms.

Company never lasts long, not with him. And as much as he wants to say in the lives of the people he meets…he’s learned by now.

He can’t.

His luck can be dangerous—especially to humans. He’s narrowed it down to around a four year time frame. That’s about as long as he can stick around without causing immediate disaster.

They’re creeping up on that cut off, now.

And he won’t let Banyue end up like…like…

There are so many examples, it honestly depresses him.

And in the time that follows, when his bad luck does come for Banyue—Xie Lian has learned his lesson well enough to bodily throw himself in front of it.

Even if that means quite literally being crushed by it.

It’s worth it

At least he’ll get lucky next time, and they’ll just toss his body in a river instead of burying it underground.

But Xie Lian doesn’t know that yet. Doesn’t have to worry about what’s to come, or anything other than the fact that, for now, he isn’t alone.

He enjoys the warmth of the little girl in his arms, the sting of the cool breeze on his face—and he remembers what he said to An Le, that night.

The last real conversation he had, before he went into that coffin:

‘I never fathered any children, and I never will.’

Of course, he knows that’s true.

Even now, it’s difficult to see himself as an actual parent—for more reasons than one.

First and foremost: that would require being with a woman. The thought of being with a man might make Xie Lian feel clueless, but…

The thought of being with a woman makes him feel queasy in an unpleasant sort of way, and even if he could manage it…that just doesn’t sound very fair to his hypothetical partner, in that situation.

But beyond logistics…Children deserve parents who can give them what they need

Xie Lian can’t even take care of himself very well. Much less a helpless little person.

He makes a good replacement parent, he thinks. He’s not awful at looking after children who don’t have anyone else, but…

He’s finally learned his lessons.

He deserves to be alone.

He has a tendency to wreck things—and if he wants people to be happy, then it’s best to keep his distance.

What he doesn’t deserve, is a family.

He lets those desires go. Tells himself that the time in his life when those possibilities existed has passed.

And it’s not so bad.

Because on nights like this—when he’s holding Banyue, he knows that it won’t last. But in the moment, it feels like a glimpse of something he wouldn’t have gotten to have, otherwise.

And for that, he’s grateful.

⏳ YEAR SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY ⌛️

“You’re sure?”

Hua Cheng has been in this chamber many times. More than he can count—and one of those occasions is one that he can’t even remember, but—

It’s been centuries, since it was for something like this.

“Don’t try to change my mind.”

He’s led countless children through this door before, and now, well…

The woman who stands before it is tall, heavy dark hair pulled up into two neat buns on either side of her head, wearing lavender robes.

They have silver rabbits stitched into the sleeves.

Shuo stands by his side, hands balled into fists.

Yanlin doesn’t look back.

The three of them have known each other longer than most beings on earth. Though, to be fair—they know each other best.

Hua Cheng has watched over them—but from a distance.

For six entire centuries.

They lost Bao a century ago. His spirit was dispersed in a conflict with, well…

Qi Rong only escaped with his life because Hua Cheng was focused on making sure Shuo survived, and has been intelligent enough to hide himself well ever since.

Since then, it’s been just them.

Shuo and Yanlin aren’t children anymore.

In fact, in the time since Hua Cheng took the two under his wing, they’ve both aged to the point where they look older than him.

Both in their early thirties, while the Ghost King is eternally young.

“It’s not like you have a reason to go,” Shuo tries to reason, his eyebrows knitting together. “You—!”

“I don’t have a reason to stay, either.” She mutters, her head held high. “I was six when I died, Shuo.”

“I was seven.”

“It’s not the same for you!” She snaps.

“You…”

Shuo has done well, as a ghost. Far better than any other under Hua Cheng’s direct command, obtaining a savage rank.

Hua Cheng doesn’t imagine he’ll ever become a true calamity. The odds of another being born this millennia are rather low. But he rivals Qi Rong, now.

“You might be fine with all of this,” Yanlin mutters. “But there were things I wanted from my human life that I’ll never get to have.”

“Like what?!” Shuo glares. As far as he’s concerned, the afterlife beats his human life any day. “What can’t you have now?”

“A family!”

She snaps, turning around and stomping her foot. “And don’t you DARE treat me like I’m silly for wanting that!”

“You…” Shuo pauses, looking slightly uncomfortable. Hua Cheng doesn’t say a word, his arms crossed as he watches the two bicker. “You could still…there are…”

“Ghosts that would have me?” Yanlin scoffs, and Hua Cheng sighs.

He’s more than aware of the fact that the female ghost has had an interest in him for quite some time. He isn’t a fool.

But he’s also belonged to someone else for his entire life, and that will never change.

She’s never forced those feelings on him. Never made it a problem. But her frustration has occasionally been palpable. Particularly when Hua Cheng would refuse to let them any closer than they already are.

But the one that he pities, in the end, is Shuo.

“…Yeah,” he mumbles.

“There are.”

Shuo, who has loved Yanlin since they were children. Only to constantly fall in the shadow of someone the girl wanted, but could never truly have.

“…Even if there were,” she shakes her head. “I want children. A home. A life. What’s wrong with that?”

In truth, there’s nothing wrong with it. They’re all normal things for a girl her age to want. Things that were taken from her, in the end. Cruelly and unfairly.

Shuo can’t begrudge her that. But Hua Cheng can see the heartbreak in his gaze.

“Couldn’t you wait a little longer?

Shuo’s voice is small now, almost pleading.

But Yanlin just shakes her head, her gaze firm, never leaving that door.

The red door.

“I stayed this long for Bao,” She mutters. “He needed to take care of someone—and you got too independent after a little while. But now…”

She wraps her arms around herself tightly. “I’m ready.”

Shuo’s hands ball into fists by his sides. “You…don’t even know what kind of life you’ll have, next time around. What if it’s worse? What if you’re better off here?”

“Then I’ll die again, and I’ll try again.” She shrugs.

Hua Cheng’s gaze softens, becoming slightly fond.

That’s Yanlin.

Anger is her natural fear response. It’s not always the most endearing. Actually—it makes most people turn away from her.

But she’s strong. And to the people she loves? Utterly selfless.

She’ll be a good mother.

“I’ll keep going until I have a rich husband, and a cute son!” She snaps, crossing her arms, “If I get that, then sure—I’ll stay as a ghost as long as I can. But that’s what I want.”

Shuo looks at Hua Cheng helplessly, desperate for the Ghost King to intervene.

If he asked, Yanlin would stay. They both know it.

But the decision to stay or move on is precious. Hua Cheng appreciates it more than once.

Slowly, he walks to the female ghost’s side, surveying the door as he stands next to her.

“You’re ready?”

Her lips turn up weakly.

“…Yeah,” she mumbles, reaching over.

Hua Cheng doesn’t often allow others into his personal space, not outside of a fight. But now, he lets her grasp onto his hand, squeezing his fingers tightly.

“…Thank you, Hua Cheng.”

He arches an eyebrow. “What for?”

Yanlin bites her lip, so hard that it begins to throb.

“…When I died, I was so, so scared.” She whispers, eyes still staring straight ahead. “And—when the bandage man—”

“Lang Ying,” Hua Cheng reminds her gently.

Yanlin swallows dryly. “L-Lang Ying. When he took me, I…”

Her teeth clench, and her chin tilts down.

“I had a horrible life.” She whispers. “I loved my mom, and my little brother. But…horrible things happened to me.”

She’s never said what, not in six centuries. Even now, taking about it brings tears to her eyes, and her hand shakes.

Hua Cheng squeezes it silently, offering her reassurance.

It’s not something he would do for most.

She sniffles, wiping at her eyes. “And—when Lang Ying took me, I thought the same thing was going to happen again. And I was so, so scared. I—I hate feeling scared.”

“I know,” Hua Cheng murmurs, never looking away from the door, knowing that she only feels comfortable talking like this when no one is looking at her.

“It makes me so mad…” She mutters, and the Ghost king almost smiles.

“I know.”

“But then…Shuo and Bao found me.”

She smiles, and the tears flow just a little bit faster. “They gave me that string, and they told me…if I stayed with them, and I held on, I would be safe. And—” Her voice cracks. “So many people in my life promised to keep me safe, but…”

For once, Hua Cheng feels a little…

Moved.

“You were the only one who ever actually did,” the ghost admits. “And I…was never scared like that again. Not ever.”

Because Yanlin worshipped a man who always denied being a god, but he protected his believers like no other.

“I just wish I could have been…”

“You were useful,” Hua Cheng murmurs, eyes straight ahead.

Her lips tremble, and the Ghost King bends over.

He’s never been an affectionate person, she’s never seen him do more than shake someone’s hand, but…

Hua Cheng kisses the top of her head.

“They needed you.”

She was the youngest of the three, it’s true—

But Yanlin was always Shuo and Bao’s big sister. Looking after them. Anticipating their needs. Putting them first.

And if this is what she wants, moving on…

She deserves to have it.

Her hand clings to his so tightly, trembling.

Over half a millennia ago, when she was still so small, and he was barely a calamity at all, she held his hand just like this.

‘I’m not ready yet, but…when I am, will you bring me back here?’

He kept his promise, right up until the very end.

“…Thank you, Hua Chengzhu.”

Finally, Yanlin lets go of his hand, turning around, bowing low, hands clasped in front of her.

When she straightens, a tear stained smile is on her face. Not sad tears, or frightened, just…

Bittersweet.

“I wish you good fortune, and…happiness.”

She glances over her shoulder, giving Shuo one last look.

“…If you’re actually gonna stick around for a long time, you need to find connections,” She warns him, her voice stern. “Being a ghost is about more than just being the strongest, you know.”

Shuo nods, eyes glassy.

“I know,” he murmurs.

“If you aren’t careful,” She jerks her thumb at Hua Cheng, “You’ll end up just like him.”

There are worse things to be, but he nods once more.

The Ghost King waits to see if he’ll say anything but…

The young man stays silent, fists clenched.

He watches as Yanlin turns back around, reaching for the door handle.

He doesn’t tell her.

Some might think of it as cowardice, but…

Hua Cheng disagrees.

It was the selfless thing to do, letting her go without any regrets.

The door is thrown open wide, the light blinding.

And when she steps through—it’s just the two of them.

Hua Cheng turns away without a word as the door slams shut, rattling the dice in his palm, opening their own way back.

“…You know something?” Shuo mutters as they climb the steps back to the mortal realm.

“What?”

“Ghost Stories are bullshit.”

That draws an amused chuckle from the calamity.

“How do you figure?”

“It’s always about scaring humans, but…” The muscles in the savage ghost’s jaw work tightly. “I lost so much more after I died than I ever did before.”

Hua Cheng falls silent.

“It’s way scarier, being a ghost.”

They part ways when they return to ghost city. Shuo walks off on his own path, shoulders hunched, and Hua Cheng doesn’t chase him. He has his own work to do, and, well…

The boy needs space to mourn.

When Crimson Rain returns to the gambler’s den, however, it’s to an unwelcome sight.

The ghouls and ghosts are in a stir over something, and the moment he steps through the door, the reason for that becomes clear.

“…What do you want?” He mutters, his expression darkening.

Black Water glances up at him over his playing cards, his feet kicked up on top of the gambling table. “To make a proposition.”

“You better not be betting with gold,” the older calamity mutters, stalking past him. “You still owe me.”

“Relax, I’m betting spiritual power.”

He Xuan sets his cards down, and, sure enough, he has a royal flush, making the other ghosts groan with annoyance.

He’s quick to move to his feet, following Crimson Rain up the steps, toward his private viewing area. Black Water is the only one who has ever dared to venture up.

Now, watching the two ascend side by side, one of the ghosts can’t help but notice how the two share a similar posture.

When Hua Cheng isn’t around, He Xuan often tends to slouch. But when they walk together, both have their shoulders thrown back, hands clasped behind them.

Once they’re behind the red beaded curtains at the top of the steps, Hua Cheng immediately goes for the liquor cabinet.

A necessity, for when Black Water shows up unannounced.

“What do you want?”

“Well, on the subject of owing you…” The water demon takes a seat.

“Go on.”

“I have recently come into an…interesting situation,” He Xuan shrugs, tossing his hair back over his shoulder. “In large part due to the funds you loaned me.”

Hua Cheng stares at him, lifting his drink to his lips—clearly unimpressed.

“…And I have an opportunity for you.”

“An opportunity?” Hua Cheng repeats flatly, crossing his arms.

“A hiring opportunity, to be more specific.”

The Ghost King could not be less amused, and He Xuan holds up a finger. “Have I ever come to you about something frivolous?”

Hua Cheng opens his mouth.

“…Besides the fish thing,” He Xuan cuts him off quickly, before he can speak.

Hua Cheng closes his mouth.

“Just stop being vague and get on with it,” he eventually mutters, already finishing off his glass. “I’m not in the mood.”

“Fine,” the water demon shrugs.

“I happen to know of a former heavenly official that’s looking for a job,” he explains, and before Hua Cheng’s hopes can lift (to be fair, they weren’t high to begin with, he clarifies—

“Not the Crown Prince of Xianle, obviously. No one has been able to locate him.”

Hua Cheng stares back at him frostily. “I didn’t think you were talking about him, but thank you for that pleasant reminder.”

“…” Black water glances down at his nails, examining his cuticles. “But he was an ascended martial god, he likely has useful intel.”

That’s…true.

Hua Cheng huffs, refilling his cup once more. Honestly, if he had lived long enough to be of an appropriate drinking age, he would have truly relished in the opportunity to get absolutely shitfaced.

Now, he just has whiskey and wishful thinking.

“And what do you want for it?”

“Three million knocked off my tab?” Black Water offers, and Hua Cheng snorts derisively.

“One.”

“That’s stingy, for a man with your coffers.”

“I’m not running a charity,” Hua Cheng mutters, taking another sip. “And this official of yours might be useless. Most of them are.”

“I wouldn’t bring you someone useless,” He Xuan sighs, kicking out his feet. “I know better.”

That’s generally true. Black Water is one of the few beings that /can/ push his luck with Crimson Rain Sought Flower. He’s the closest Hua Cheng has to a peer, and…

They share things.

Memories. The most intimate form of knowledge one can have of another person. Secrets. A common goal.

As such, there’s an understanding that they won’t destroy each other. And, if one is in dire straits, the other will come to their aid.

But lets be clear: while aid is rarely needed, it’s always Hua Cheng aiding He Xuan, not the other way around.

By far, he’s the muscle of the operation.

But Blackwater isn’t useless. In fact, he’s generally helpful in a fight—but his real strength lays in gathering information.

He’s disturbingly good at lying, and an impeccable actor. Just as good as Hua Cheng, which is a first—and his obsession puts him close to the heavens.

That’s useful, and—it makes it likely that he knows this official isn’t worthless.

“One million,” Hua Cheng repeats.

“Pah…”

“You should be grateful I’m letting you barter at all,” The Ghost King sighs, toying with the red string knotted around his finger. “Normally, when someone fails to pay up—I don’t let them negotiate.”

“This isn’t really negotiating…” The water demon grumbles with a heavy sigh.

Hua Cheng’s eyes flash. “Someday, you’ll go long enough without paying that I’ll decide on my own way to get my money’s worth, and you aren’t going to like it.”

He Xuan shivers, casting him an annoyed look. “It’s a wonder you aren’t more popular. A real fucking head scratcher.”

“You must be referring to the gods you’ve been chasing around,” Hua Cheng retorts with a sharp smirk, “Ghosts and Mortals like me plenty.”

In truth, he’s developed quite a salacious reputation, in spite of having never taken a lover that anyone knows of.

Probably because of the hedonistic image that he projects to the world, but no matter.

“…Would you like to meet him, or not?”

“I suppose,” Hua Cheng rolls his eyes, setting his glass down. “Is he nearby?”

“I left him in Paradise Manor,” He Xuan shrugs.

“Here seemed too public. He’s freshly banished, still reeks of Heavenly Aura.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t offer to rid him of that,” Hua Cheng mutters, making his way for the curtains.

That’s the irony of it all.

Hua Cheng projects indulgence, but possesses restraint.

Actually, his self control is extremely impressive.

He Xuan, however, struggles deeply with controlling his own desires. His hunger, his thirst—and, despite his calm, intellectual exterior, his lust.

Hua Cheng has never been known to take a lover, but He Xuan?

He indulges.

“Oh, no,” the water demon shakes his head. “It would have felt…”

Hua Cheng glances over at him, arching an eyebrow, and Blackwater waves his hands, like it’s difficult to explain.

“…like taking advantage, I suppose.” The calamity mutters.

“Oh?”

“He’s useful—but pitiful.”

As Ghost Kings, they don’t really have peers—that isn’t possible. But He Xuan makes a point of not going after especially weak partners.

Still, Hua Cheng can’t imagine how someone he deemed as too weak to take into his bed (a rare occurrence in itself) would still be “useful.”

But he follows along, intrigued enough by the prospect of the former god’s supposed utility, and…if nothing else, a break in the monotony.

It doesn’t take him long to see what He Xuan meant by ‘pitiful.’

The youth standing in his hall is slim, and not particularly tall.

His hair is long, smooth, and dark, hanging against his back in a low ponytail, his robes black and purple. They hang off of his frame, like he might have lost weight.

There’s nothing signaling that he’s especially weak, but…

There is a pitiful air about him, it’s true.

When he hears them coming, he turns his head, and at first—Hua Cheng is startled by how young he looks, but…

He’s Baby faced. That’s the word. The sort of person that never really looses the softness in their cheeks, always looking younger than they actually are.

Not particularly handsome, but boyish, Hua Cheng supposes.

In any case, the moment he sees the Ghost Kings approaching—the former official drops into a deep bow, waiting to be spoken to.

…Well, he seems more adept to the idea of serving than Hua Cheng was expecting.

“…You must be the official He Xuan was telling me about,” the Ghost King mutters, tilting his head. “What’s your name?”

He’s asking to be polite, of course—only one official has been cast out recently, and so he already knows before the young man murmurs a reply—

“…Yin Yu.”

Right.

The one that used to be martial god of the west, sharing with…Quan Yizhen, if Hua Cheng remembers correctly.

And the two of them were involved in the brocade immortal fiasco.

Messy business—rather embarrassing for the Heavens.

Hua Cheng walks past him smoothly.

“I have been informed that you might be useful to me,” the ghost king sighs, dropping down on the chaise lounge in his sitting room. “Would you care to elaborate?”

“…” The former god swallows dryly, and he nods, taking a deep breath. “I’m a hard worker, very efficient. And I—”

“Want to work for the ghost realm.” Hua Cheng raises an eyebrow. “That won’t endear your to the heavens. Or make it easy for you to get back.”

Yin Yu hangs his head, bangs falling in front of his face.

“…I don’t think I want to go back anytime soon, sir.”

Shame is evident on his face, and that much Hua Cheng can understand.

The story of his fall is especially bruising. Rather unpleasant.

“But you don’t wish to return to the mortals, either.” The Ghost King presses—and Yin Yu shakes his head.

“It would be harder to hide.”

Hua Cheng raises an eyebrow. “You think your shidi will come looking for revenge, then?”

Yin Yu hesitates, squirming a little with discomfort. “Not…not exactly, no.”

“But you do think he’ll come looking?”

The former official nods, hanging his head even lower.

Well, since he was an ascended martial god, Hua Cheng thinks it’s only reasonable to test and see if he actually knows anything.

“What about Generals Nan Fang and Xuan Zhen?”

“What about them?’

“What have those two been doing, exactly?”

“Oh,” Yin Yu mutters, thinking.

“…Xuan Zhen hasn’t left the heavens much, recently,” Yin Yu murmurs. “But in the last seventy years or so, Nan Yang hasn’t really been around at all.”

“Really?” Hua Cheng arches an eyebrow. “Know anything about that?’

“Uh…” Yin Yu rubs his chin, thinking it over.

“He’s pretty attentive to his worshippers in the mortal realm,” the former official explains, and Hua Cheng fights the urge to roll his eyes.

Nan Yang is a strong martial god. Not as popular as the Water Master or as fearsome as Ming Guang, but respected and well regarded.

But not brave enough to face Hua Cheng’s challenge. And, well…

Words cannot describe how frustrating it was, watching Feng Xin fail to protect Xie Lian all those years ago—when he had a body, when he could actually talk to him, and Hong’er could only…

Watch, helpless.

It’s left him with little fondness for the Martial God, aside from, well…

“…Are you going to speak?” Blackwater drawls, “Or are you going to glare at the boy until he faints?”

Hua Cheng isn’t exactly glaring AT Yin Yu, he’s glaring THROUGH him, but point taken.

“And he’s been away from the heavens for seventy years, just answering prayers?”

“Well, no.” Yin Yu shakes his head. “He had some sort of argument with Xuan Zhen before he left—a bad one, even for them. And he’s supposedly been searching for something ever since.”

“For what?”

“No one knows,” he shrugs, fiddling awkwardly with the end of his ponytail. “A lot of people think it might be some sort of heirloom of Xianle? Or maybe a weapon.”

Hua Cheng arches an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Well—because he keeps on digging up ruins,” Yin Yu explains.

“Rumor has it that a lot of valuable gifts from Jun Wu were pawned when the Prince of Xianle fell, so maybe he’s looking…” The former official trails off, noticing the way the air in the room has suddenly changed.

From behind Hua Cheng’s back, Blackwater is dragging his hand over his neck in a sharp, ‘Cut it out’ gesture, and—

Yin Yu is left slightly confused.

Is the Crown Prince of Xianle a sensitive subject? That’s odd. No one has strong feelings about him one way or the other lately.

“…Well, you’ve made the introduction,” Hua Cheng’s turns his head to look back at He Xuan, who is suddenly once again examining his cuticles. “Get out.”

If anyone else spoke to the water demon that way, they would end up torn to shreds. But in this case, Blackwater shrugs.

“Fine,” he drawls, twirling a knife between his fingertips as he rises to his feet, “I’ll be away for a while, anyway.”

“That means your tab is just going to keep going up,” Hua Cheng reminds him flatly.

“That’s why I brought him.” He Xuan replies, his tone rather dry.

The doors slam shut behind him, and Yin Yu does his best not to wither under Hua Cheng’s gaze as the Ghost King’s attention comes back to him, standing ramrod straight.

“And what are your thoughts on the matter?”

“I…” He swallows thickly. “What?”

“You were talking about the crown prince pawning Jun Wu’s gifts,” Hua Cheng explains calmly. “What are your thoughts on the matter?”

“Uh...” Yin Yu has no idea why it matters, but it feels…like his answer is quite important for some reason. “I’m not in a position to judge.”

He certainly isn’t.

“And if you were in a position?”

The former god stares at him for a long time, before eventually forming his reply.

“He was banished for trying to do the right thing. I was banished for…” He trails off, his expression slightly anguished.

“Being a jealous fool,” he finishes the thought, shaking his head. “And I’m pretty sure begging for employment from a ghost king is probably worse than pawning a few swords…” He stops his eyes widening when he realizes what he just said, throwing his hands up nervously.

“I didn’t mean—!”

Hua Cheng shakes his head, laughing under his breath. “I’m not that fucking sensitive, brat. Relax.”

The former god falls silent, pressing his lips together with a nod. “I’m not very good at relaxing, sir.”

“I can tell…” The Ghost King tilts his head.

“Come over here.”

The young man looks a little hesitant.

“I’m not Blackwater, I don’t bite.”

Yin Yu doesn’t now what to make of that statement, but he creeps over cautiously, until he’s standing in front of Hua Cheng’s seat.

“Show me.”

“I—What?”

“The Shackle.”

At first, he gawks at the suggestion. “I-I can’t do that…”

“Why?”

“It’s against Heavenly Law to show the shackles to any…”

Mortals, technically. Do ghosts count?

Hua Cheng watches him, and he can’t help but…agree with He Xuan’s statement.

It really is pitiful.

But he’s agreeing for very different reasons.

It’s pitiful, that even now, cast aside and abandoned, so many heavenly officials still find themselves so desperate to please Jun Wu.

If you ask Hua Cheng, the Heavenly Emperor’s love is fleeting, cheap—and it’s not worth chasing.

“We break many heavenly laws here,” the Ghost King reminds him. “If that’s already a problem…”

“…” Yin Yu gulps, knowing…he doesn’t have much of a choice.

So, he rolls up his sleeve, holding his wrist out.

The pattern is all too familiar.

Hua Cheng reaches out to grip his arm before he can pull it back, watching closely. His expression is completely unreadable as Yin Yu watches him with a tense, nervous gaze, unsure of what he’s going to—

“Fine.”

Hua Cheng lets him go.

Yin Yu stands there, arm hanging limply.

“I…What—?”

“You’re hired.”

The former official stands there awkwardly, tugging his sleeve down over his wrist once again, unsure…of how that just happened.

“I am?”

“Even with your spiritual powers sealed, you’re still a martial god,” Hua Cheng shrugs. “That’s useful.”

The mention of being useful makes Yin Yu’s eyes flash with something other than shame for the first time that evening, even if he can only repeat the same words, gaping like a fish. “…I am?”

Yes. In more ways than one.

Ascending as a martial deity requires a certain skill set.

If Hua Cheng loans him spiritual power, the official would likely be more than capable of regulating Ghost City during his absences. His knowledge of the current politics of the Heavenly Court can update Hua Cheng’s gathered information.

But there are other benefits.

First being: he has no where else to go.

Second being: he’s terrified of double crossing Hua Cheng.

(Likely because the Ghost King did inform him that, if Yin Yu ever betrayed him, he would eat the former god’s beating heart and use his ribs to pick his teeth.)

Third, and most important being:

“Uh…do I really need the blindfold?” The Waning Moon Officer mumbles, stumbling a little in the city street.

“Yes,” Hua Cheng agrees flatly. “That’s key.”

“And…what am I supposed to do?”

Hua Cheng has been looking for another banished god.

“Wander around like you’re trying to survive.”

Who better to assist in that task, than someone in a near identical situation?

Of course, simply having him try to recreate the Crown Prince’s path doesn’t work out.

Yin Yu’s luck isn’t bad enough, it would seem.

In any case, when he isn’t ordered to watch over Ghost City in Hua Chengzhu’s absence, the officer’s primary mission is to focus on the search.

And whatever task the Ghost King comes up with in the moment, but still.

It leads to awkward encounters for Yin Yu.

After all, he’s still hiding from his past.

His determined to the point of insanity, bullheaded, annoying, clueless past.

So, he usually goes out in a mask. But sometimes, particularly when he’s trying to retrace the Prince’s steps, he’ll try on the blindfold.

After all, Hua Chengzhu was very insistent when he brought him out that one time, saying it was key to help the former god, ‘get into character.’

There must be something to that, right? He wasn’t just messing with Yin Yu, was he?

It would be several decades before the god came to understand his employer’s mischievous nature.

(But even now he’s starting to wonder if he actually gets paid enough for this.)

But one day, when he’s out searching, running into street signs and stumbling over curbs, he hears—

“Your highness?!”

Uh-oh.

Does he have enemies? How could he have enemies? Hasn’t everyone forgotten about him?

Yin Yu attempts to dart down a back alley, only to end up caught by the wrist.

“What are you—?!”

“I—!”

Both fall silent when the blindfold slips down his nose.

Both Heavenly Officials (current and former) stare at one another.

“…You?!” The martial god huffs, holding the Waning Moon Officer against the alley wall.

“G…General Nan Yang,” Yin Yu croaks in return.

“Why are you…” Feng Xin sputters, looking him over. “Wearing that?!”

“Uh…I…um…” The former god stammers, fumbling for a reason to be walking around with white cultivation robes and a blindfold that doesn’t sound utterly ridiculous, but—

“G-Getting into character?”

(Feng Xin makes him nervous.)

“…” The god’s brow creases. “…What?”

They stare at each other for a long moment, and Yin Yu quivers under the martial god’s stormy gaze, growing more and more angry by the second.

(In reality, Feng Xin is the sort who simply looks angry when he’s confused.)

“I’m…I’m an actor now!” He blurts out, voice cracking.

“An…actor…” Feng Xin repeats slowly, looking him over suspiciously. “…In what sort of production?”

“I…” Yin Yu swallows hard, clearing his throat. “Um…it’s…like…one of those tragedies? They cast me because I’m…so…depressing?”

“Oh.” The god blinks. “That makes sense.”

“…” Maybe Yin Yu left himself open for that one, but he hadn’t expected the martial god to agree…Honestly, no wonder Xuan Zhen is always calling him an insensitive—

Suddenly, the exiled god goes rigid, and Feng Xin pauses. “…Are you alright?”

Oh.

/CRASH!/

Uh-oh.

/BOOM!/

Feng Xin whips his head around, trying to find the source of the commotion. “What the—?”

“…I’m really sorry about this, General Nan Yang,” the former official mutters under his breath.

“You—?”

Suddenly, Yin Yu grabs Feng Xin by the wrist with surprising strength.

The Martial God gawks, “How—?!”

After all, he shouldn’t be that strong, not with his powers sealed. So how is he—?

But instead of hurting him, Yin Yu drags Feng Xin’s hand forward, and…

Makes the god slap him across the face. Rather hard, actually.

“I’m sorry!”He repeats.

Now Feng Xin is so confused, he’s starting to feel the beginnings of a migraine.

(Therefore, he looks absolutely furious.)

Why is Yin Yu apologizing to him? He just made Feng Xin slap him silly.

“What the fuck—?”

Suddenly, there’s silence.

Dangerous silence.

Yin Yu groans.

Feng Xin slowly turns his head, and in the mouth of the alleyway, he sees a youth standing there.

One with wildly curly hair, pulled up into a high ponytail, golden earrings hanging from his ears.

And his eyes? They’re red with rage, literally flashing with spiritual power.

At first, Feng Xin actually thinks he understands what’s happening.

“Now, Quan Yizhen,” he starts, his voice stern, “He’s already been punished—!”

From behind him, Yin Yu suddenly whimpers, spitting out blood, clutching his face.

“G-General Nan Yang, please stop! It hurts!”

What the—? Did he really make Feng Xin hit him that hard? And why is he—?

Feng Xin doesn’t get the chance to pull another conscious thought together before he’s being hit with the sentient equivalent of a wrecking ball, toppling an entire building to the ground.

“…THE HELL?!”

Yin Yu runs as fast as his legs will physically take him, fumbling for the dice in his pocket.

“Asshole,” he mumbles under his breath, “What do you mean, ‘that makes sense?!’” He drops his voice down several octaves in an imitation of Feng Xin’s voice as several explosions echo.

He almost doesn’t feel bad for—

/BOOM!/

/CRASH!/

/SCREEEEEEACH!/

“OH GOD, NOT THE HOSPITAL!”

Okay, he feels a little bad, actually. But Quan Yizhen wouldn’t hurt any mortals, and Feng Xin will be fine.

That day, Yin Yu comes to the conclusion that he’ll use other methods to help his employer look for the crown prince. Somehow, just dressing up like him brings horrible, absolutely rotten luck.

(It explains why so many theaters that showed plays mocking the prince burned down.)

He’ll just have to use his wits. Or…something of the sort.

When he returns to Paradise Manor to finish his duties for the day, he already thinks his day has gotten about as rotten as it could get, but…

Then he hears the roaring, cackling laughter, and he deflates.

Of course, one of his boss’s wraith butterflies was monitoring. So…

He saw the entire thing.

You know, Yin Yu doesn’t even know why the Ghost King wants to find the Prince of Xianle so badly, but he feels sorry for the man.

It’s probably so he can torture and boss him around, embarrass him on purpose, laugh at him all the time and make jokes at his expense, but…Compared to the alternative, it isn’t so bad.

Unlike the heavens, Hua Chengzhu is fair.

Still, Yin Yu doesn’t think he gets paid enough.

⏳ YEAR SEVEN HUNDRED AND NINETY NINE ⌛️

“Liao Yong!” A mother calls sharply, “Get away from there!”

The little boy stops, hand outstretched.

Deep in the central plains, near the edges of the now fallen Empire of Yong’an, lies the city state of Daqing.

An ancient city, one of old blood.

In it’s earliest days, it was warred over in the conflicts between the clans of the central plains and the Kingdom of Wuyong.

Later, it would be the crown jewel of Xianle’s military might—and after that, Yong’an’s greatest fortress.

The walls of Daqing are world renowned, and they have only ever fallen once:

Over a thousand years ago, before the armies of General Ming Guang. His last great victory before the death of the Queen of Yushi.

The place where he would return, following the failed military revolt.

He ascended here, shattering his own sword upon hearing of his own King’s betrayal, before the eyes of thousands of onlookers.

A monument was erected in the central square to honor him, a statue cast in bronze, painted in gold.

Since then, the walls of Daqing have stood firm.

Even now, after the fall of Yong’an, they have not been breached. Not by swords.

A young child stands before them now, staring at his ball, which has rolled just outside of the city gates.

They stand wide open, just as they always do.

But he doesn’t dare go any closer.

“Get back here this instant!”

“…” The child sighs, giving up on the toy, turning around to return to his mother, when…

“Excuse me,” a voice behind him pipes up, and the boy’s eyes widen sharply. “Is this yours?”

It’s the first time that Liao Yong has ever met a stranger.

He didn’t know that they could smile so kindly, or give back the toys you thought you lost forever.

For a city of such size, word travels quite fast in Daqing.

There’s a new stall in the market square—for the first time in years. A modest one.

They say there’s a new weaver.

With patterns so delicate, so intricate, no one can fathom how the prices are so reasonable. Honestly, he’s practically giving them away, barely making enough to feed himself.

But he never seems to mind, smiling and chatting pleasantly with anyone who stops by.

“…Mister?” One of the children asks one day, making the weaver tilt his head back, bamboo hat dangling over his shoulders.

“Hmm?”

“What’s your name?”

The weaver smiles. “Oh, it’s Hua…” He stops himself, trailing off, and the boy frowns.

“Hua…?”

He already said that he couldn’t keep on using that alias. It’s been nearly two centuries since the Banyue incident, but after the thing with that Poet…

“Lian,” he murmurs, offering his hand, “My name is Hua Lian. And you?”

After a moment, the child shakes it.

“Liao Yong.”

When he leans over to shake the weaver’s hand, Xie Lian notices something that makes him frown.

This distinctive noise of clinking metal.

He hears it all over this city.

Such a quiet place, for having so many people. No one ever seems to speak unless it’s necessary.

Then, the boy whispers something that makes Xie Lian pause.

“Mr. Hua, are you a god?”

His head whips to the side sharply, but before he can ask the boy what he means—he hears the sound of his feet smacking against cobblestones, running away.

Daqing is an ancient place.

It has been blessed as many times as it has been cursed, and the power of the land is great—for those who know how to use it well.

And yet, Xie Lian has not encountered a single cultivator in the city.

Merchants, yes. School teachers. Builders and bricklayers.

But no priests.

Xie Lian encounters the occasional soldier—the only people, from what he can tell, who don’t seem to carry that unfamiliar clinking sound. With them, it’s the rattle of blades in their scabbards—a tune the prince knows well.

But there’s very little need for them.

Xie Lian has never been in a city with so little crime. Even after a month sitting in the market, he hasn’t run into a single pickpocket. No sexual assaults.

(Which, in his experience, are horrifically common everywhere else.)

Not even a drunken brawl.

Daqing is a quiet place.

People speak quietly on the doorsteps near their homes. There’s rarely haggling over prices in the market stalls. Even the children seem to stop when they catch themselves laughing or playing too loudly.

The quietest of them all is the weaver in the market square.

He sits before his loom, working in easy silence, barely making a noise as he moves the bailing wires into place, pulling the reed back and forth as he works layer after layer of thread into his pieces.

And each day, he listens closely.

Daqing is a strange place.

He’s learned better by now, than to ask the boy what he meant that day, when he asked Xie Lian if he was a god. Each time he’s started to inquire, Liao Yong has fled like a startled field mouse, wary of being caught by a wandering barn cat.

He learns to ask better questions.

Liao Yong is twelve years old. He was eleven, when they met—but his birthday was last week. His mother works as a server in a nearby tavern. He likes reading, but there aren’t many books around.

(Xie Lian asks why, and the boy finds a reason to flee once more.)

Liao Yong had an older brother, once—he joined the army when he boy was small, and left on an expedition through the desert. They never came back. It’s just him and his mother now, but he doesn’t really mind. He keeps busy.

(Xie Lian asks why he isn’t in school, and he bolts.)

At first he wondered if the child was being mistreated, to be so skittish. But after a week, he realizes that Liao Yong speaks more than any of the other children in the city. He’s the only one brave enough to approach the weaver on a daily basis.

For Daqing, he’s quite social.

One day, Xie Lian asks about that. Asks if there’s something wrong with his face—if that’s why the children stay away, and the boy beside him shakes his head, patiently holding threads for the weaver while he works.

“They’ve just never talked to a stranger before.”

Xie Lian thinks about that, tilting his head to the side. “…Do you not get travelers often?”

It’s strange.

He came to the city of Daqing when he was just a boy near Liao Yong’s age. He was old enough to ride by himself, but he usually shared with Feng Xin, following the King.

Daqing was so lively back then. Merchants shouting as they peddled goods that had been ferried up from the sea by the river. People dancing and singing in the streets. Children playing with firecrackers and glass marbles.

Liao Yong shrugs. “Who would want to come here?”

That’s when Xie Lian realizes a new, ever more strange thing about the city:

He hasn’t heard any music since he arrived.

No singing. No flutes or drums. Not even clapping in a particular rhythm.

Even in the pubs, they drink in near silence.

Something is wrong here. Deeply wrong.

He can feel it in his gut. Can taste it in the air.

When he asks about the music Liao Yong simply says that it’s been outlawed. When the god asks why, the boy replies that he doesn’t know.

He’s lying. Xie Lian can tell.

One day, he asks—

“Liao Yong?”

“Yes?”

“Would you mind taking me to the Ming Guang temple?” The weaver murmurs, setting down his thread. “It’s been a long time since I prayed, I’m worried it might bring ill fortune if I put it off much longer.”

“Um…” The boy pauses.

“There isn’t a Ming Guang temple in Daqing.”

Xie Lian frowns, because he knows that can’t be right.

“There used to be.”

The prince might not keep up with heavenly politics of the modern era as well as he should, but Daqing is where Ming Guang ascended. He had a grand temple.

Xie Lian prayed there, when he visited as a child—as all visiting nobles did, to pay their respects. It was the only time in his life that he worshipped in a temple that wasn’t Jun Wu’s—and he remembers it well.

It was livelier than what he was used to.

People would dance and sing as they paid their respects to the martial god, laughing together.

It made Jun Wu’s temples feel almost like tombs, upon his return to Xianle.

That was when he first got the idea that you didn’t need to kneel, in order to pray.

“Well,” Liao Yong shrugs. “There isn’t one anymore.”

That’s hard to believe. Even Xie Lian knows that Pei Ming is still quite popular.

“Well…” He tries to think of another possibility. “What about Nan Yang, does he have a temple here?”

“…No,” the boy shakes his head.

“Xuan Zhen?”

“Nope.”

“Lang Qianqiu?”

“Nuh-uh.”

“…Alright,” Xie Lian sighs, feeling a little frustrated. “Where is the temple for Jun Wu?”

“…We don’t have a temple for Jun Wu.”

The god sits in stunned silence.

A city of this size, with no temple for the Heavenly Emperor?

“…Do you not have any temples here?”

“Um…we have one,” Liao Yong mutters. “But that’s about it.”

Xie Lian’s eyebrows knit together. “For who?”

“Wen Jiao.”

The god wracks his mind—but he’s never heard of that name before. It’s possible it could be a newer deity, but…

“If he’s popular enough to be the only god with a temple in your city, why does he not have any cultivators?”

“…” Liao Yong squirms a little. “He doesn’t need any. We all pray to him. Besides…Cultivators were banished from Daqing a hundred years ago.”

Xie Lian pauses.

“…Banished?” He questions softly.

“…” The boy looks around carefully before scooting closer to Xie Lian on the ground.

Not knowing that a set of eyes are already watching them intently.

“Wen Jiao banished them when he came to the city,” the boy whispers.

What sort of god would banish cultivators? It’s self destructive.

“Most of them went to other cities, but one cultivation sect moved to the mountain, just to the North,” he speaks so quietly, like he’s frightened of being overheard. “They cultivate under the Rain Master.”

“…If they’ve been gone for a century, how do you know they’re still there?” Xie Lian murmurs, his fingers never slowing on his loom.

Nearby, a city guard pushes away from where he’s been leaning back against the wall, slowly walking towards them.

“They’re allowed in every now and then, to recruit disciples,” Liao Yong murmurs, dipping his head low. “Wen Jiao doesn’t want people who can cultivate to stick around, so…”

Xie Lian frowns, trying to put the pieces together.

There’s something wrong with Daqing.

He sensed it before. Like a chill down his spine, but now, it’s becoming harder and harder to ignore. Something unnatural is going on here.

“That’s why I asked you that question, when you told me your name,” the boy mumbles.

Xie Lian turns his head in his direction, “Why?”

“…Because you aren’t from the monastery,” Liao Yong explains, and Xie Lian doesn’t know how he could have known that so early on, but he sounds absolutely certain. “But you aren’t wearing a…”

On instinct, Xie Lian reaches out with his hand—and he finds what he’s looking for.

The source of that sound—the metallic clinking.

There’s something wrong, with the city of Daqing.

Xie Lian hisses, jerking his fingers back. It’s rare for him to feel pain, but now—the pads of his fingers are scalding.

There’s an iron shackle around Liao Yong’s neck.

And the cursed energy in the metal is so potent, it reacts violently with Xie Lian’s spiritually fortified flesh.

That shackle, no—the entire city—

It all reeks of evil.

The city guard makes his way closer, elbowing around merchants, “Hey!” He starts to call over. “You—!”

Liao Yong falls silent, trembling all over, the blood draining in his face as he turns around. Xie Lian tenses, tapping the side of his throat, silently indicating to Ruoye that it might be time to—

Then, another voice breaks out, and for the first time since he arrived here…

“As time draws near, my dearest dear, when you and I must part…”

Xie Lian hears singing.

A young man sits on a nearby open window sill, one leg dangling down, a book loosely clutched between his fingertips.

His voice is low, soft, and clear.

Eyes fixed on the city guard.

Xie Lian can’t see how handsome he is, with long, dark hair pulled away from his face, shining under the sun like silk. Eyes that burn like liquid gold. But, from the sound of his voice—he must be in his later teenage years.

The guard rounds on the young man, glaring.

“Xiong Li!” He snaps, turning away from the weaver and the child sitting beside him. “You really can’t help yourself, can you?!”

The young man smiles faintly, and the guard’s wrath doesn’t stop him from singing another line, snapping his book shut before he sets it down.

“How little you know of the grief and woe, in my poor aching heart…”

He drops down from the window sill, dark boots landing heavily against the ground, bangs settling around his face.

The guard’s glare intensifies as he stomps over, “Enough!”

Xiong Li’s smile widens.

“You don’t like it?” He’s smirking now, dodging around the guard as he lunges for him, book clasped behind his back. “That’s so mean,” the teenager pouts. “I wrote it for you!”

The guard, who is almost certainly a decade his senior, has turned purple. “You little—!”

Xiong Li steps close when he lunges, twisting on the ball of his foot until he ends up behind the guard, pressing a shove against the small of his back.

“Each night I suffer for your sake, you’re the boy I love so dear…”

“I’m not kidding, brat—I’ll have you whipped for this!”

Xie Lian’s fingers have completely abandoned his loom now, his brow furrowed.

Whipped, for singing a song to a city guard?

From beside him, Liao Yong seems to understand what the older boy is trying to do for him—and he takes his chance to run back home as silently as he can.

Xiong Li keeps singing his song, dodging around the guard’s attempts to catch him, flittering around like a little song bird, watching the young boy’s escape from the corner of his eye.

“I wish that I was going with you…” He hums, as Liao Yong disappears around the corner.

“…Or you were staying here!”

With that, he offers a deep, dramatic bow, spinning on his heel before taking off himself in the opposite direction, egging the guard on to chase after him.

The shouting fades into the distance, and disturbed whispers echo through the town square.

“…They aren’t going to let him off easy, this time…”

“It’s his own fault for never minding his own business…”

Would his punishment truly be so severe? And if that’s the case—how much danger was Liao Yong in, for the teenager to think it was worth distracting the guard?

The boy—Xiong Li—doesn’t return to the market square for several weeks. And even though Xie Lian can’t see him—he can hear the raggedness of his breathing. The pronounced limp.

He couldn’t be more than seventeen, and he’s clearly been beaten within an inch of his life.

For singing.

Presumably, to prevent Liao Ying from facing an even more violent punishment for speaking to Xie Lian about the shackle around his neck.

Shackles that nearly everyone in the city seems to be wearing.

And Xie Lian is left to wonder…

What is going on here?

Xie Lian knows enough to think it must have something to do with this ‘Wen Jiao’ that everyone in the city is worshipping. But…

He can’t understand how any of this would benefit a god. Or why Jun Wu would allow an entire city of mortals to be placed in chains.

Part of him wonders if he should go. If his bad luck might only make their situation worse, but…

He listens to a group of children playing in the street, struggling to toss a ball around without making too much noise.

Xie Lian can hear the quiet rattle of their shackles.

And that’s when he knows that he cannot leave.

No child belongs in chains.

So he stays, listens, and waits.

Not long after, in a city without laughter or song, there’s a bit of a stir.

Liao Yong looks up from his seat beside the weaver, nearly dropping his threads.

Xie Lian tilts his head, turning his head in the direction of the commotion. “What is it?”

“The cultivators,” Liao Yong whispers, untangling the threads in his hands, “from the mountain.”

The god listens closely as the townsfolk flock to the small group of newcomers.

It takes him a moment to realize, but…

Most of them are parents. Pleading.

“Please, my son—he’s the brightest in his class! He would make an excellent cultivator!”

“My little Ma Lihue can run faster than any of the other children, take her, please sirs!”

And in a horrific way, it’s logical.

Since he arrived, Xie Lian has not heard a single soul leave the city, and he’s willing to bet the shackles the citizens wear bar exit.

Sending their children to the mountain is their only chance at freedom.

From the sound of it—there’s six or so cultivators in the group. They’re quiet, but not in the frightened, forced way of the other citizens of Daqing.

They’re disciplined and orderly. Xie Lian imagines whatever cultivation methods they use, they’re well trained.

One breaks off from the group—and from the lighter sound of his footsteps, the god surmises it must be a younger disciple.

The children in the square sound delighted so see him.

“An-Xiong!” Liao Yong cries, beaming with excitement. He almost gets up, but his threads…

Xie Lian offers him a gentle smile, bumping his arm. “Go ahead,” he murmurs, pulling the threads from his fingers. “I’ve got it, go on and say hello.”

“…” The boy nods eagerly, leaping to his feat and running over.

“An-Xiong!”

“An-Xiong, you’re so tall now!”

“An-Xiong, did you really learn magic?!”

The small crowd of children jump around the teenager’s knees, clinging to his robes. He pats their heads in polite acknowledgement, but he isn’t looking at them, not really.

He’s watching a young man, sitting in a nearby windowsill.

Long strands of raven hair falling into his face, the rest pulled back with a white ribbon.

The cultivator’s eyes settle on the welt on his cheekbone, and they narrow as he marches over.

When he’s right in front of him, Xiong Li pretends he’s only just now noticed his arrival.

“Ah, An-Xiong,” he murmurs, looking up from his book. On him, the honorific sounds slightly sarcastic, but he smiles up at the cultivator slyly. “You grace us with your presence.”

At first, the other young man doesn’t speak, eyeing the bruises on Xiong Li’s face.

“Have you been fighting again?”

Xiong Li huffs, snapping his book shut. “No! I was actually being pretty cool, I’ll have you know. Very heroic.”

“Right.”

“I was…” he grumbles, looking over An’s shoulder, at all of the children who are eagerly awaiting his attention.

Xiong Li’s lips turn down into a slight frown, and he sighs. “You should give them attention, you know,” he mutters. “One of them might be able to go back with you.”

An’s eyes remain fixed on him. He’s always been prone to staring.

Xiong Li really hates that.

“So could you.”

“I swear, if you ask me that one more time—”

“Come back with me, Xiong Li.”

/Thud!/

Xiong Li punches the other teenager in the shoulder, slipping down from the window sill so he can make him turn around. “Go do your job and stop bothering me!”

Xie Lian listens to the exchange

He can’t help but smile at first.

Xiong Li makes a point of sounding so blasé and uncaring, but his heart is beating a little faster than it was before.

But the more they talk, the more the god wonders.

“You won’t last much longer here,” An mutters, his gaze pinched with worry

On that note, Xie Lian agrees. Not only has Xiong Li been beaten and whipped to the point of near death three times since he arrived (which hasn’t been that long at all), but in a city without cultivators, where the children with potential are sent away…

It doesn’t make sense, that Xiong Li is still here.

He’s far more intelligent and talented than any of the other boys his age. And while Xie Lian may be blind, he can feel the warmth from Xiong Li’s golden core.

He would be a strong cultivator indeed.

Still, he acts blasé.

“Then I guess I don’t make it…” He sighs dramatically, shoving An back towards the groom of children. “Ah…poor, poor me!”

“Xiong Li…” An mutters, his voice filled with worry and annoyance. “You don’t even know what it’s like outside.”

“Probably just as shitty as it is here.”

To anyone else, it sounds like silly bickering, but Xie Lian is listening intently.

“Do you have any idea how much they made us forget?” An mutters. He’s always had a handsome face. Sharp eyebrows, a thin nose, and a strong jaw. Now, it’s twisted with concern.

Forget?

“Even the name of this place—”

The name.

Xie Lian stops weaving, his fingers paused on the edge of the loom.

That’s right.

This place wasn’t always called Daqing. It had a different name, when he came here as a boy.

What was it?

It’s—

It’s so odd, because Xie Lian can’t…

He can’t seem to remember the name that Daqing used to be called either. His memory isn’t as sharp as it used to be. He’s learned how to prioritize what he wants to remember, casting useless information aside. After all, he has centuries to keep track of.

But still.

Xie Lian never even realized that Daqing had been called something different to begin with—not until An pointed it out. And even now, no matter how hard he strains to remember, he can’t.

It’s more than just odd. Xie Lian recognizes that.

It’s some sort of curse.

But…is that even possible? Xie Lian has never heard of anything like that before.

Is it even possible to steal a name? The name of an ancient, famous city for that matter?

And from the sound of what An is saying…

If you leave the city walls, you remember.

So, up until Xie Lian stepped inside the gates, he probably knew exactly what this place was.

Did he come here for a reason, then? Was it more than just wandering?

And if that’s so, how do An and the other cultivators from his sect keep their memories when they return?

Finally, Xiong Li coaxes him into paying attention to the other children, who all seem far too eager to display their knowledge and skills, hoping to get taken along to the mountain with him.

And, as the god listens, he learns more about this cultivator—An.

He’s seventeen, the same age as his friend.

He was born in the temple of Wen Jiao, and along with the other city orphans, was raised by the worshippers of Daqing’s only god.

Which was how he came to know Xiong Li, another orphan raised within the temple walls.

The boys grew up together, both showing great promise from a young age.

But when the time came, An took the chance to go to the mountain and learn how to cultivate—and Xiong Li chose to remain within the city walls.

The visit doesn’t last long.

Eventually, the older cultivators make ready to leave—and with a reluctant sigh, their disciple makes to go with them.

But not before sending Liao Yong a look from the corner of his eye.

“You can come, if you’d like.” The little boy stiffens, his jaw dropping.

“…Me?”

Xie Lian isn’t particularly surprised. Liao Yong is quick witted, brave—among the other children of Daqing, he stands out.

But after a moment of pondering, the child shakes his head, shrinking back. “…No thanks,” he mumbles.

Xiong Li seems to be following Xie Lians, ‘Do as I say, not as I do,’ method, gawking at the little boy.

“Are you stupid?” He mutters, giving Liao Yong a little shove. “Go with him!”

“…No,” the boy shakes his head, moving to run and hide behind Xie Lian. “My Mom needs me!”

An stares at the child for a long moment, before letting out a low sigh, shaking his head. “As you wish.”

He begins making his way from the market, and Xiong Li sends the child one more annoyed glance before following him.

“I didn’t tell him to do that, An.”

“I know.”

Xiong Li glances back at the boy, still hiding behind the weaver’s back, rubbing his elbows sheepishly. “…It sounds like you blame me.”

“He idolizes you, Xiong Li,” An mutters, his tone flat. “All of them do.”

“Not as much as you,” the teenager retorts.

An rolls his eyes.

But…

He only gets to see his friend once a year, and he doesn’t want to spend the entire time arguing.

“What’s that book you were reading?”

“Hmm?” Xiong Li glances up, eyes wide. “Oh, you’d hate it, it’s silly, romantic. Very inappropriate.”

An’s face flushes slightly at the mention of the word ‘inappropriate,’ but he keeps his chin turned away, so his friend doesn’t see.

Xiong Li doesn’t pay any mind to that, walking close to his side. “Oh,” he muses, his eyes widening. “I forgot—we’re of age today, aren’t we?”

Another thing about the two young men—

They were born on the same day.

An nods, clasping his hands behind his back, fidgeting.

“Happy birthday, An.” Xiong Li smiles, mimicking his posture teasingly. Then, he bumps him with his shoulder. “Aren’t you gonna say it back?”

“…Happy birthday, Xiong Li,” he mutters, his face still turned away.

The teenager’s eyes sparkle with amusement, “Any luck finding your fated person?”

An keeps his gaze fixed on the opposite side of the square. “No.”

Xiong Li clicks his tongue. “That’s hard to believe.”

He tilts his head sideways, until his temple presses against An’s shoulder.

They were the same height, when he came last year.

When did his friend get so tall?

“You’re such a charmer…”

An’s jaw clenches. “Stop making fun of me.”

He can’t see the softness in Xiong Li’s eyes.

He’s not making fun of him. Not really.

“…C’mon,” he sighs, straightening, “Stop being a grouch. You got to pick a family name today, right? What’d you decide on?”

Xiong Li’s mother left a note with his name on it—but An, he was born with nothing.

He didn’t even have a name in the beginning. ‘An’ was just something that Xiong Li called him when they were little more than toddlers, chasing each other around. By the time he was old enough to understand what names were—the boy just took ‘An’ as an actual name.

Now that he’s officially, ‘of age’ he gets to pick a surname of his own—something that Xiong Li knew he looked forward to.

“…Lan,” the cultivator replies quietly.

“Lan,” Xiong Li repeats, tilting his chin, testing the name on his lips, “…Lan An?”

“Is it no good?”

“No, no…I like it,” Xiong Li assures him. It’s a little awkward on the tongue at first, but it’s simple. It suits his friend’s minimalistic tastes. “Did you think it over carefully?”

“Yes…”

“Good,” the teenager huffs, crossing his arms. “It’s very important.”

“I know.”

“It’s the name you’ll give your wife and children one day,” Xiong Li sniffs, rubbing his nose. “Family names, and all that.”

Lan An’s eyes cut over to look at him sharply, burning silver under the setting sun. “I know,” he murmurs, looking Xiong Li over. “I kept that in mind.”

The city gates stand only a few dozen meters away, and Xiong Li’s smile fades slightly, no matter how hard he tries to keep it bright.

Still watching him, Lan An’s eyes sadden.

“…Have you written any more songs?”

Xiong Li snorts, finally meeting his gaze.

“How do you think I got this?”

He means the welt on his face, of course. And from the slight limp in his gait, Lan An knows—he’s been whipped again.

“…You’re not about to ask me to sing, are you?” Xiong Li’s smile turns sly, trying to deflect Lan An’s concern.

“Sorry, but I only sing for boys I like,” he shrugs. “Don’t cry about it, okay? I’m no good at dealing with people who get sad over being rejected—”

“Xiong Li.”

He stops, when the cultivator places a hand on his shoulder.

“…What?”

The weight of Lan An’s gaze is suffocating.

When he looks at you, it feels like you’re the only person in the entire universe.

Really, it’s—

Xiong Li swallows dryly, and in spite of his teasing, he takes a shallow step to the side, heart beating fast.

It’s so annoying.

“Come back with me.”

And just like that, the moment is broken.

Xiong Li rolls his eyes, giving his shoulder a shove. “Would you shut up about that already? I’m not going! Persistent guys like you are creepy, you know that?”

Lan An’s gaze drifts down to Xiong Li’s throat.

To the iron shackle.

“If you stay here…” It’s hard for him to even say it. “You’ll die.”

Xiong Li’s face freezes for a moment, his smile slightly more fragile than it was before—but it remains.

“Everyone dies, Lan An.”

He’s adopted that new name so easily. It almost makes the cultivator smile.

Almost.

“Not everyone,” he murmurs.

“…” Xiong Li purses his lips, glancing back towards the market. All of the people. The merchants, the teachers, the children playing. Even the weaver, whom he’s barely spoken to. “I’m staying.”

“Xiong Li—”

“I’d rather die.”

Lan An’s eyes widen sharply, and he falls silent.

“I’d rather die trying to help people,” Xiong Li explains, “than live out there. It would feel like running away.”

And that isn’t who he is.

His eyes slide up to Lan An’s face. “…Besides,” he murmurs, “you have a shackle of your own, don’t you?”

Lan An’s fingertips drift towards his forehead, self conscious.

Xiong Li’s smile isn’t bright at all now—but still, he can’t seem to stop trying to pass it off as genuine.

“Take care of yourself, Lan An.”

But before he can completely turn away from him, his friend catches him by the wrist.

“…You’re going to get in trouble with your teachers if you don’t hurry,” he starts—until he feels his friend press something into his hand.

A book.

“What’s—?”

“It’s our birthday,” Lan An mutters, and Xiong Li understands.

It’s a gift.

“Don’t show it to anyone else.”

“…” The raven haired man waggles his eyebrows. “It’s like that, huh?”

Lan An doesn’t even acknowledge the teasing. “Promise me, Xiong Li.”

After a moment, the boy nods, watching Lan An’s face carefully. “…I promise,” he agrees.

The cultivator nods, seeming relieved.

And with that, he lets him go.

He follows his cultivation masters—and they walk right through the open gates once more.

Xie Lian ponders.

A few hours later, Xiong Li sits on the same window sill as always, this time with a new book held in front of him.

And this time, his eyes are impossibly wide, his expression frightened and pale.

Could that…could it all really be tr—?

“Excuse me, young man?”

Xiong Li jumps, quickly stuffing the book into his sleeve as he looks up, “Huh?”

But as soon as he sees who it is, he relaxes.

It’s just the weaver—the blind one, no less.

“Could you help me with something?”

For once—he’s a little reluctant, he was sort of in the middle of…

“…” Xiong Li sighs, slipping down from the windowsill. “Sure,” he sighs, “What do you need?”

After all, he’s not going to refuse to help a blind man. He’s not that much of a brat.

Xie Lian smiles gratefully. “It’s been too long since I prayed,” he explains.

“Could you bring me to the temple of Wen Jiao?”

Xiong Li is a little baffled by the request, but…

“Sure,” he sighs, offering his arm. “It’s not too far.”

He’s not the most experienced guide, but he’s kind. Walking at a considerate pace, helping the god when he stumbles.

But when they reach the temple gates, Xie Lian begins to understand.

Before they even walk in the front doors, he knows exactly what is going on. What has been done.

“…You alright, Mr. Hua?” Xiong Li questions, eyeing the weaver’s sudden change in expression.

“Oh,” the weaver smiles, patting Xiong Li’s arm. “Yes, yes…thank you.”

He steps inside the gates, pressing one hand against a pillar as he walks by.

He’s been here before—and this is no temple of Wen Jiao.

This is the Grand Temple of General Ming Guang, warden of the North.

Xie Lian recognizes the location. The size and shape of it, from when he came here as a boy.

He walks through the hall, listening—and hearing nothing but the sounds of chains clinking together.

“…Wen Jiao must be quite powerful, to have a temple of such size.”

“I guess,” Xiong Li mutters.

For someone who grew up in the temple, he doesn’t sound particularly fond of him.

Xie Lian’s footsteps echo as he walks, his fingertips reaching out to trail along the walls. Slowly, he arches an eyebrow.

“What are the suns for?”

They weren’t here before, and Pei Ming has no association with them. Those must have been an addition.

“He’s a sun god,” the teenager explains.

Xie Lian tilts his chin back.

That’s a lie.

There is only one god that has dared to lay claim to the sun, and that is the Emperor.

“…Tell me more about him,” Xie Lian murmurs, running his fingertips over the engravings.

“Ah…” Xiong Li sighs, leaning back against one of the pillars. “He came to Daqing over one century ago, and freed us from the oppression of the cultivators of Xianle.”

The god coughs.

“X…Xianle?” He mutters, thinking back on the sect that was here this morning. “I thought the cultivators here were under the Rain Master.”

No one cultivates in Xie Lian’s name, he’s sure of that.

“What?” Xiong Li blinks. “I mean—the cultivators were descendants of Xianle.”

That—that makes more sense.

“Most of the old families in the city could trace their roots all the way back to the old nobility,” Xiong Li explains. “Daqing closed it’s gates during the outbreak of Human Face disease, and the wars that followed.”

Xie Lian remembers that.

It wasn’t called Daqing back then, but he remembers that the great walled city of the North closed it’s gates, surviving the storms that followed.

There was thought of bringing his parents there for shelter, in the end, but…he never got the chance.

“The lords of Daqing were proud of their ancestors, their history—but to the rest of the world, they were oppressors.”

Xiong Li walks beside him now, head tilted back. Xie Lian can’t see it, but the teenager is glancing over the murals on the walls, depicting the story he tells.

“Wen Jiao arrived in the city, shining like a star in the central square—and he gave the lords of Daqing and their cultivators one chance,” Xiong Li stops in front of one mural, tilting his head back.

“They had three days to burn their temples to all other gods. To sing and feast in Wen Jiao’s name. If they did, he would give them wealth and power. If they did not, he would punish them.”

Burning temples?

That doesn’t sound like a god at all.

“But the Lords of Daqing were proud, and loyal to their gods—so they refused.” Xiong Li reaches out to touch the fading paints, worn from the decades.

You can almost see what was once underneath.

“Wen Jiao returned on the third day, and he shattered their Golden Cores.”

The mural depicts as much. A god, casting down the rulers of a once proud city.

“He cast them out, and the descendants of Xianle that remain…” Xiong Li presses a hand to his throat, wincing. “We all pay penance for the disrespect. And the crimes of our ancestors.”

“Xiong Li.”

The teenager starts at how different the Weaver sounds now, how serious his voice is. “…Yes?”

The white robed young man stands before the divine statue of Wen Jiao, his arms crossed. “Thank you for your help—you should go now.”

Xiong Li stares, baffled.

“Don’t you need—?”

“I can make it home just fine,” Xie Lian reassures him, “but it’s late. You should go.”

“…Alright,” the boy agrees cautiously, making to leave, when the weaver adds—

“And Xiong Li?”

He looks back once more.

“Don’t come back here. Not if you can help it.”

The teenager sends him an odd look, but shrugs, mumbling an acknowledgement before he disappears through the temple doors.

Humans don’t belong in this place.

Xie Lian glances around.

Even under the shackle, it feels darker than normal.

This place is full of resentful energy.

Toxic death chi, so rotten, it’s difficult for the Crown Prince of Xianle to breathe.

The incense does little to cover it. Like planting flowers to cover the stench of a rotting corpse.

This is no longer a functioning temple.

And Wen Jiao is no god.

Xie Lian knows what he is.

If he had his spiritual powers, he could sweep the issue away in an instant.

Maybe if he even had two cursed shackles, instead of three—he could do more.

Now, Xie Lian knows that he cannot deal with this matter single-handedly, but…

He knows someone who might.

He figured out very quickly that no one is allowed to leave through the gates of Daqing. The shackles on the citizens stop them. The soldiers remain for the pay.

Xie Lian was turned away gently each time he approached the gates, because no one saw a blind tradesman as a threat.

No one knows he’s of Xianle blood. And no one has seen reason to place a shackle on him before.

Now, in the dark, stillness of the night, he darts across rooftops, changed into midnight blue robes for the purposes of stealth.

Approaching the great walls of Daqing.

They’re a wonder of the modern world. The tallest walls of their kind, reaching over one hundred meters at their highest point.

The task of building them was so daunting, the engineer behind it ascended as a civil god among the completion of their construction.

Xie Lian can’t see them, but he remembers how imposing they looked, when he was just a boy. The white marble and sandstone blocks rising so high into the sky.

He even remembers the sign over the city gate, as tall as three men standing on one another’s shoulders.

And he can feel the shadow of those walls now, upon his approach.

“Ruoye!” He whispers, leaping from the spire of a nearby tower.

Upon his call, the silk band stretches out, shooting up to the very top of the walls, latching on, pulling it’s master up.

Xie Lian stands at the apex for a moment, looking around.

“…Take me to the nearest temple,” he murmurs.

Immediately, the spiritual device obeys, helping him down to the ground on the other side.

The minute Xie Lian’s feet touch the earth, it comes rushing back.

Daqing isn’t the name of this place.

He turns around, knowing, even if he can’t see it, that the sign above the city gates is only a few hundred yards to the east.

He knows now, what that sign says.

This is a proud place. An ancient place. One of old, powerful blood.

A city of science and cultivation. Where the streets once rang out with music, so sharp and clear, it would ring through the mountains and the valleys on the northern edge of the central plains.

Two gods have ascended on this soil, and it’s magic is strong, pulsing with a force.

This city is not a prison. The lords of Daqing were not arrogant oppressors.

These walls were built to protect the people. Xie Lian’s people. And the people trapped within them now are their descendants.

The God will not allow them to live as slaves any longer.

Ruoye leads him north, up the side of a large, steep mountain, rising high into the clouds. He stumbles several times, scraping his hands and knees on the rocks, but his spiritual tool always stops him before he falls too far.

The air is slightly bitter from the cold—but clean.

The higher he climbs, the more it feels like he’s rising through a layer of mist—Xie Lian feels grass underneath his feet once more as he reaches the plateaus near the summit.

Hears the sound of wind passing through the leaves, and nearby waterfalls.

This is a peaceful place.

The spiritual energy here is powerful as well—and clear. Likely more than enough to support a sect of strong cultivators. Xie Lian suspects it could last for millennia to come.

Finally, he approaches a gate, where he is stopped by a guard.

“Do you have an entrance permit?”

Xie Lian tilts his head, looking around. “…A what?”

“To enter the Cloud Recesses, you must either be a disciple in the local sect, or you must have an entrance permit.” The Guard explains. “Do you meet one of those requirements?”

Xie Lian rubs his chin. “...I suppose not.”

The guard stands at a stiff posture. “Then you may not enter.”

Xie Lian thinks that over. “…Can I appeal that decision with someone?”

“The sect leader,” the guard replies. “But he will not rise for another few hours.”

“Ah, I understand…” Xie Lian sighs.

After a moment, he drops to the ground, folding his arms around himself in a meditation stance. “I’ll wait.”

The guard watches him sit like that for some time, impressed by his discipline. “…Are you a cultivator, Mr…?”

“Hua Lian,” the blind Taoist replies. “And I used to be.”

“…Have you come here to study?”

Xie Lian smiles faintly. “Oh, no—just to pray.”

The guard seems to approve of that answer.

After quite some time, the prince dozes.

When he awakens again, there’s something soft in his lap. Fluffy, even.

A…rabbit.

And with it, a permit.

Xie Lian smiles faintly, scratching the creature behind the air.

Such a precious little thing.

The temple to the Rain Master is not particularly large or ostentatious, as per the Rain Master’s own wishes. Xie Lian remembers that much.

But when he stands before the altar…

There’s nothing.

Xie Lian frowns, trying to find some sort of spiritual connection. He knows that the shackle around his neck, the one sealing his spiritual power—it stops him from being able to collect spiritual energy effectively. He can’t use a communication array anymore.

Not without help, anyway—of which he has none.

But that’s never stoped him from praying before.

Seven Centuries ago, he prayed to Mu Qing. Briefly, but he felt the connection there. Even when he’s prayed to Jun Wu—he knew the Emperor could likely hear him.

But now?

Nothing.

Xie Lian tries calling out to Jun Wu, next—and still, he receives no reply. The fact that he doesn’t answer isn’t surprising, it’s the fact that Xie Lian feels no spiritual connection at all.

Hesitantly, he tries praying to Feng Xin next. It’s…awkward, but it’s not about him.

Still, he hears nothing.

With even more hesitation now, he tries Mu Qing. The only one who he knows for a fact could hear him, back then…

Silence.

Slowly, the god rises to his feet, watching his incense stick burn to ash, turning to one of the sect disciples.

“Is your sect leader nearby?” Xie Lian questions softly, rubbing at his eyes.

They ache, now—but he couldn’t tell you why.

“Ah…” The two disciples look to one another. “He’s meeting with the other sect elders right now—”

“Perfect,” Xie Lian murmurs, walking past them.

“Sir!” One of them cries, following after him. “Wait—!”

“No need to show me the way,” Xie Lian smiles pleasantly. “I can hear them.”

They’re over a hundred meters away in one of the main buildings, but he can hear a meeting going on.

The disciples find it ludicrous that their fellow Taoist could possibly hear the elders from that far away, but the follow after him.

For a blind man, he walks…surprisingly fast.

“You can’t just barge in unannounced!”

“It’s forbidden!”

“And I am deeply sorry for that.”

Xie Lian bows his head respectfully. “But this is a crisis.”

The two young disciples look to one another again, baffled.

A…crisis?

For the first time in months, Xie Lian hears music. Actual music.

The notes drift out over the air, soft, soothing…

It sounds like a guqin.

The player must be quite skilled. Xie Lian doesn’t think he’s ever heard someone play so elegantly.

In a matter of moments, he’s bursting through the doors to the meeting hall, and the music stops—punctuated by the gasps of several elders.

“This is a private meeting—!”

The man who stands before them, his hair unadorned, pulled into a simple bun on top of his head, wearing deep blue robes, bows sharply—clasping his hands in front of him.

“Apologies, esteemed masters, but you are all in grave danger.”

Silence falls across the room.

From the head of the table—a silver haired Cultivator speaks, and from the way people hush at the sound of his voice, Xie Lian can assume he’s their leader. “What are you talking about, young man?”

“…I’m sure you’re all aware of the curse that is laid upon the city.”

When no one denies it, Xie Lian nods, taking that as a point to continue, “How long has it been since you received any communication from the heavens?”

The elders look at one another, baffled.

“…Yushi Huang is not known for being communicative,” The Sect Leader murmurs.

“Not hearing from the Rain Master for a stretch of time is not something to be concerned with.”

“But have you heard from ANY of the other gods?” Xie Lian presses urgently. When none of the cultivators reply, the prince shakes his head. “This entire region has been blocked.”

Which would explain why General Ming Guang hasn’t realized what’s become of one of his temples. Nothing here is getting in or out, spiritually speaking.

“We are well aware of the curse you’re referring to,” the Sect Leader rises to his feat. “But it’s limited to the city walls.”

“No,” Xie Lian shakes his head vehemently. “That might have been the case in the beginning, but it’s grown with power, and it will continue to swell until it’s something you’re incapable of stopping.”

It’s bizarre, listening to a young man speak with an air of such authority.

“Young sir,” one of the other elders speaks up, not unkindly. “Your intentions are clearly good, but if the curse is meant to grow beyond the city walls, there is little we can do.”

The prince turns his head in the direction of the old man’s voice, frowning. “What do you mean?”

Now, the sect leader speaks again, stroking his beard as he looks Xie Lian over, “Because the curse that has been leveled on the city was cast by a God. We are sympathetic neighbors, but we cannot disobey an edict of heaven.”

“An…” Xie Lian’s jaw goes slack. “An edict?!”

“I understand it must be upsetting, if you have witnessed the suffering that goes on there—but we are mortals. It’s not our place to interfere with the will of Heaven.” The leader of the Cloud Recesses frowns, examining Xie Lian’s aura. “A fellow cultivator should know that.”

Xie Lian clenches his teeth, frustrated by the madness of it all.

Gods, being told it’s not their place to intervene among mortals. Mortals, being told it is not their place to intercede the will of heaven.

And each time, the people suffer more for their inaction.

For the first time in so long—Xie Lian really can’t remember the last time he spoke so loudly, with such firmness—

“Wen Jiao is no God!”

Shock falls over the room, and Xie Lian squeezes his fists tightly.

“Have you been inside the temple?”

“...No,” one of the cultivators admits. “Part of the conditions of us being allowed inside the city is that we may not enter the Grand Temple.”

“It’s Ming Guang’s, not Wen Jiao’s.”

That seems to give the men pause.

“And it’s not being used as a temple at all!”

Xie Lian shivers slightly, disgusted by the grotesque nature of the truth. “It’s being used as an array to feed off of the people of the city. It’s been running for over a century now, and it’s gotten strong enough to even cut communication between the Cloud Recesses and Heaven!”

“An array?” The Sect Leader sputters, shaking his head in disbelief. “I’ve never heard of an array being used to such ends—”

“It’s ancient, high level magic,” Xie Lian explains desperately, “beyond anything people of your generation have ever seen.”

“People of our generation?!”

One of the elders sputters. “Lad—there isn’t a man here who isn’t old enough to be your father!”

There isn’t a man in this room that is old enough to be Xie Lian’s great great great great grandson, but no matter.

“What you’re dealing with isn’t a god—it’s a demon.”

Xie Lian slams his fist on the table before him for emphasis, making the men gathered jump with surprise at his passion. “A powerful, intelligent demon. It’s probably capable of overpowering heavenly officials at this point—”

“A demon could not take an entire city hostage.”

The Sect Leader shakes his head. “And if it did, that would be a matter for the heavens to intercede with.”

Xie Lian bites back the urge to lash out in his frustration. “The Heavens don’t know this is happening!”

“If you’re correct, and it’s capable of overpowering gods…”

Another elder speaks up with a frown, “What would we be able to do about it?”

After all, what are they, compared to gods?

Xie Lian doesn’t have an immediate answer to that, and the Sect Leader opts for a compromise.

“We already have several disciples that will be traveling to Lotus Pier next month to study under the Jiangs for the summer. While they’re there, they can pray in the local temple of Ming Guang for assistance.”

That…won’t work.

“You don’t understand,” Xie Lian shakes his head. “This is going to require a massive response from the heavens. Multiple martial gods might be required. That requires a lot more than the prayers of a few disciples, and it could take years to even get a response—!”

“The curse has been on the city for over a century now,” another elder frowns. “A few years or so would hardly make a difference. And how do you know so much about the logistical decisions of the heavens, hmm?”

“The city doesn’t have years!” Xie Lian finally snaps.

“They might have one more year, but after that—everyone inside those walls is going to die!”

He hears one person stir. Not seated at the table, with the others—but on a cushion near the corner.

The one who was playing the Guqin before.

“What would you suggest?”

“…Send all of your disciples to Lotus Cove, now. Have them pray day and night until they receive a response. Or go back to the city with me now, and we can—”

“All of our disciples?” The Sect Leader shakes his head. “Even if I believed you—that isn’t possible.”

“Do you have any idea what it means, for a city like that to be cut off from the entire region?”

Xie Lian falls silent, because…

He can imagine.

“Our sect is responsible for the education, public safety, and law enforcement of every village from here to Yunmeng.”

The sect leader shakes his head. “If I send all of my disciples to Lotus Cove, there’s no one to enforce law and order in the region, and it falls into chaos. If we go to the city now, and it turns out you’re right—just how many of us would die, you think?”

In truth? Many.

“I am sorry for the plight of the people who live there,” the old man mutters—and Xie Lian—he believes them.

He sounds truly agonized.

“But we have already stretched ourselves thin trying to help them, and we cannot dispense any more resources than we already have.”

The Sect Leader sits back down. “Maybe I would take that risk if I knew for sure that you were correct—but I cannot risk the wellbeing of the North on the hunch of a man who…heavens, you can’t be that much older than Lan An.”

Xie Lian pauses, realizing—

That’s the guqin player

For a moment—he almost falls back into what he might have done, when he was a younger god.

Feeling frustrated and sorry for himself. Focusing on how helpless he was. Sightless, without his spiritual powers, or even a little bit of luck…

But that wasn’t why he asked Jun Wu to give him these shackles.

Xie Lian did it to punish himself, yes. Because he deserves to be alone, and he deserves to feel this pain that he’s been living with.

But Xie Lian also did it because he didn’t want to make the same mistakes again

He didn’t want there to be another fall of Xianle. He didn’t want to fail someone again the way he did Hong-er. Didn’t want to take someone like Wu Ming for granted ever again.

Xie Lian took these shackles, because he wanted to learn.

And he did learn something, in all of this.

He learned that he is human. That he is flawed, and he can fail.

Those are lessons that you don’t get to learn, when you’re raised as a prince.

But he also learned something else:

That you can have all of the power in the world, and still be helpless.

You can also be powerless, and change people’s lives in ways that you never imagined.

But Xie Lian knows now, in this moment—he isn’t helpless.

Even without sight, spiritual power, or luck.

He’s still resourceful. Intelligent. And, if nothing else, brave.

That’s very little compared to the self esteem that he once had. It’s more of a practical evaluation of what little strengths he has left, but still.

‘I’d rather die trying to help people, than live out there. It would feel like running away.’

Xiong Li is a boy who was born into chains. He’s never known life without a shackle around his neck—and he can still say something that brave.

Xie Lian can’t guarantee that he can save anyone.

But he can guarantee that he’ll try.

And…he remembers something, from long ago.

“…Alright, fine.” Xie Lian mutters. “Can one of you tell me how you’ve been evading the curse inside the city walls then? Tell me that, and I’ll go.”

The elders seem hesitant, and a quiet, familiar voice speaks up.

“…It’s me.”

Lan An.

“I have a way of dealing with it.”

Xie Lian whips his head in the boy’s direction, “How?”

He plucks out a few notes on his guqin, in a calming melody—but one that feels rather purposeful.

And, to Xie Lian’s fascination—there’s spiritual power in the sound itself.

It has great potential.

Cultivation has been rather stagnant, in the last thousand years or so. The methods practiced today are the same as what was being taught when Xie Lian’s Guoshi was a student himself.

This crude attempt at using Spiritual Power through an instrument…

It’s highly advanced.

As a matter of fact—Xie Lian has never witnessed a mortal attempt something like that, even on this crude level.

“It’s called the song of Clarity,” Lan An explains. “It can ward curses off from the mind. I’ve been using it to treat patients with Qi Deviation, but…

It works on the curse in the city, clearly.

Xie Lian nods. Having heard it once—he can repeat it later, if he needs to. He’ll just need to find a way to get his hands on a little spiritual energy, but…

He has a plan forming in his mind. He knows what to do.

He bows once more, this time to Lan An, “Thank you,” he murmurs—straightening up once more, walking towards the exit.

“…” The Sect Leader watches him with growing concern. “What do you mean to do?”

Xie Lian stops with one hand on the door, turning his chin back towards them.

It startles the men, to witness the calm determination on the young man’s face.

Like someone who has weathered a thousand storms.

“I’m going back to Gusu,” he explains firmly. “And I’m going to do something for those people.”

Because even if he fails, it’s more than nothing.

He strides out of the room, knowing that the elders won’t follow him.

But one person does, and that’s just fine.

Xie Lian smiles, bowing his head, thinking on what he remembered earlier:

He only needs one person to believe him. Just one.

When he’s far enough away, he stops.

When he does, he hears Lan An’s voice, quiet—but burning with worry.

“…Do you really think everyone in the city is going to die?”

Xie Lian nods, not turning around. “If nothing is done, that’s a certainty.”

“…How can you be sure?” Lan An questions. “How do you know so much?”

He watches the back of the blind man’s head, contemplating many possible answers, but…

The last thing he’s expecting for the Blind Weaver of Gusu to turn around, opening his eyes—and when he does, Lan An gasps at the sight of the glowing pattern in his irises, stumbling back.

Xie Lian doesn’t seem offended by the response. If anything, he seems to have expected it.

“Do you know what this is?”

The young cultivator shakes his head, heart pounding in his chest. “…No,” he admits. “I don’t.”

But he can see that it’s not of mortal make.

“It’s called a cursed shackle,” Xie Lian explains, “Do you know what those are for?”

Lan An swallows dryly, gripping the trunk of a nearby tree for support. “…Yes,” he whispers.

To seal the powers of a God.

Which means—he really does know what he’s talking about, but also…

“…I’m mortal,” he murmurs. “I’m not allowed to see…”

Xie Lian closes his eyes once more. “There are always exceptions,” he murmurs. “I couldn’t show the elders or your sect leader. Do you know why I showed you?”

Lan An shakes his head.

“Your cultivation level is high enough.”

That’s what most people don’t understand, when it comes to ascensions.

There are many cultivators who are far more powerful than Heavenly Officials who never ascend themselves.

Ascension is a matter of fate and circumstance.

For potential Martial Deities, once they reach that level—they could ascend at any time. After that, it’s all about fate, and facing a heavenly calamity.

At that point, the only difference between the Cultivator and Godhood is immortality itself.

In nearly eight centuries, Xie Lian has never encountered a mortal that was powerful enough to reveal himself to willingly.

Not even Jiang Chi, who simply put the pieces together on his own—just like Hong-er did.

And Lan An is a youth of only seventeen years old.

A genius. Probably only surpassed as a cultivator by Xie Lian himself.

“…You followed me because you want to save Xiong Li,” The god murmurs.

Lan An turns slightly pink, but he doesn’t need to reply. It’s not a question, it’s a statement of fact.

He simply nods.

“I have a plan,” Xie Lian admits. “But it won’t work without a cultivator helping me.”

Lan An doesn’t hesitate.

“What do I need to do?”

“…Train.” The god replies, turning back around. “For the next three hundred and sixty four days, do nothing but cultivate. Every moment.”

He continues making his way towards the edges of the Cloud Recesses, and Lan An follows, confused. “That’s…what do you want me to do after that? Where will you go?”

“I’m going back to the city. In one year—come back to Gusu.” Xie Lian replies, hair swaying in the breeze.

“When you arrive, you’ll know what to do.”

The cultivator watches him go, his jaw slightly slack—and it’s only after Xie Lian leaves the cloud recesses that he realizes—

Lan An never asked the god his name.

Xie Lian left Gusu under the cover of night—and that’s how he returns.

For a moment, he stands on top of the city walls, wishing he could see the sight once more.

His eyes ache once more underneath the shackle, and he presses his palm to the marble under his feet.

Gusu is an ancient, powerful city.

Many have called it the forge of the Gods.

Two immortals have ascended on this soil, defying the old myth that lightning never strikes the same spot twice.

The most powerful cultivators in the last millennia have all paid homage to the spiritual lands of Gusu at least once.

Even Xie Lian is no exception.

The people of Gusu are strong, proud, filled with the strength of their shared history.

And they deserve to be free.

Xie Lian reaches into his robes, pulling on the silver chain that dangles there, lifting a ring made from diamond and ruby to his lips.

The sun cracks over the horizon, and the first rays of light begin to shine over Gusu.

“…Good morning, Hong’er,” the god whispers, taking in the breeze on his face.

He’s said that two hundred and fifty five thousand, six hundred and thirty five times now.

“Today is going to be a good day.”

With that, he jumps from the edge of the city walls, Ruoye aiding him in his descent towards the ground.

When the market opens that day, he’s back in his stall, working on his loom once more. As if nothing happened.

But something is different now.

Now, the children of Daqing flood to the cultivator’s stall each and every morning, huddling around, listening to him as he speaks.

From a windowsill on the far side of the market square, lounging like an intrigued cat, Xiong Li observes.

The Weaver works at his loom, and the children watches as he tells stories—not only with his words, but with the threads he works between his fingers.

Stories of gods, princes, and monsters.

Bridegrooms, demons, and golden palaces.

Xie Lian wasn’t the best at weaving when he started. Honestly, his first attempts were pretty pathetic. But now?

The tapestries he builds beneath his fingertips look like they belong in the halls of royalty, not some street stall.

Impossibly intricate, telling stories that turn back through the decades.

Most tapestries like this tell myths or legends, but in this case—

The stories that the Blind Weaver of Gusu tells are of humans.

Of orphans who fall from the sky. Servants who dream of more.

Guards that are loyal to the very end—and beyond.

Of rogue cultivators with flirtatious smiles and kind hearts. Of beauty pageants gone…more than a little awry.

Circus disasters and pastoral debacles.

Of Princes who slay their masters, and little girls who dream of family.

And with each story, his little audience grows. Until every child in Daqing sits before his stall, eagerly watching the weaver, Hua Lian, work his craft.

Even the boy in the windowsill abandons any pretense of reading, drifting to the edges of the crowd, his eyes…

Suspicious.

And then, when the white robed youth has so many eyes on him, he does something that makes Xiong Li’s eyes widen with shock.

He begins to sing.

His voice is gentle, but strong—maneuvering between higher and lower octaves with ease, and…

It’s beautiful, ringing far and wide.

In a language that no one speaks—but still feels vaguely familiar.

The children crowd in closer, eyes enraptured, but Xiong Li—

He sees the city guards turn their heads, and his heart drops.

“Stop…” He mutters, trying to push through the crowd. “Someone make him stop!”

He’s been beaten countless times for singing in the streets, almost always in order to save someone else, but…

Xiong Li has been through worse. He can take it. His body might not be as big as Lan An’s, but he’s durable. He—He isn’t a blind man, and—

They might kill Mr. Hua.

The children don’t even look at him, too caught up in the weaver’s song, and Xiong Li knows—he won’t have time to stop him.

His only option now seems to be to charge one of the guards to distract them, but…

When he glances back at the weaver, Hua Lian pauses to take a breath.

And when he does, right in Xiong Li’s direction, he mouths the words:

Trust me.

That makes the young man stop, his brow creased with confusion.

…What?

Trust—?

One of the guards shoves several children over, pushing his way to the front of the crowd. “What’s going on here?!”

The weaver stops in his song, dropping his hands from his loom as he turns back to the guards, raising an eyebrow. “I was just telling the children here some stories,” he offers pleasantly. “Would you care to listen?”

“…The god Wen Jiao has forbidden music,” The guard hisses.

Xie Lian smiles, tilting his head. “Really? That sounds a little silly. Like something out of a children’s story.”

He’s not exactly good at provoking people. Rudeness doesn’t come naturally to him. But whenever he needs to—he just tries to imagine what Hong’er would say.

“You—!” Another guard sputters, balling his hands up into fists, but—

No one is eager to beat a blind man. Not in the middle of the square.

Xie Lian’s smile turns a little biting. “Is he going to kidnap a princess next? Or plunge the land into an eternal winter?”

The guards glance at one another, stunned. Even the children don’t know how to react.

In the back of the crowd, Xiong Li sulks, irritated that he didn’t come up with that first.

“Oh, don’t tell me,” The weaver leans forward, “you break his spells with true love’s first kiss?”

/CRACK!/

That earns a slap across Xie Lian’s face, making his head whip to the side.

“Disrespect to his eminence will not be tolerated! And—” The guard glares, “What was that language, anyway?”

Xie Lian smiles, palm pressed against his cheek.

“Xianle.”

The guards stop, looking at one another with confusion.

“What?”

Xie Lian lifts his chin, “It’s the language of the Kingdom of Xianle. Don’t you know it?” There’s silence, and his smile turns into a smirk. “I thought your god was an expert.”

Someone hoists him up by the collar.

Xiong Li watches with confusion, realizing—He’s…getting arrested on purpose? Why?

“How would you know the language of Xianle?!”

Xie Lian’s smirk doesn’t fade, even as his feet dangle off the ground. He’s never been a very good liar.

That’s why he sticks close to the truth.

“I’m the last living descendant of the Royal House of Xie.”

Several gasps echo around him, their hands covering their mouths with shock.

“Starting with the founder, Xie Bolin,” he explains, “and ending with me.”

Xie Lian.

“…Well then,” the guard sneers, dragging him away.

“Allow us to give you the royal welcome!”

Xie Lian doesn’t bother with putting up a fight, knowing exactly where he’s being taken.

The temple of ‘Wen Jiao.’

The ‘Sun God,’ and ‘Guardian Spirit of Daqing.’

Even now, the aura of this place is still suffocating.

Xie Lian doesn’t cry out when they cast him down on the temple steps with a rough shove.

“Your eminence!” One of the guards cries out, “We have another heretic!”

“One who says he’s a descendant of Xianle! From the Royal House of Xie!”

At first, there’s silence.

Xie Lian pushes himself to sit up, waiting.

After all—now that he’s given them that information, he doubts that the demon will be able to resist.

“…Get on your knees,” one of the guards snaps, “you’re sitting before the altar of the sun god.”

Xie Lian sits back, thinking.

“Hmm…no,” he shakes his head. “I won’t be doing that.”

The guards stop, glaring at him with annoyance.

One even goes as far as to punch the weaver in the back of the head—hard enough to make him bleed from the temple.

“You dare disrespect him in his own temple?!”

The young man might be bleeding—but he shows no signs of feeling any pain. “This isn’t his temple.”

The aura of the room suddenly thickens, and Xie Lian wrinkles his nose as one guard levels a kick at his ribs.

“If you want to live, you’ll pray for forgiveness!”

The prince sits up once more—and still, if he feels the pain, he does not show it.

But when he smiles, there’s blood on the whites of his teeth.

Somehow, even sightless—he knows to turn his head toward the altar.

“I only pray to gods.” He replies dryly, “So, I cannot.”

Another god cries out with outrage, going to kick him again, but…

Now, a voice calls out—hissing from behind the altar.

“Leave us.”

The guards stumble backwards at the sound of their deity’s voice, their faces suddenly going pale.

Xie Lian, however, seems unbothered.

“That’s probably for the best,” the weaver agrees, “it would be a little awkward otherwise.”

One guard looks like he wants to kick him again, just for that, but…

After a pointed hiss from the altar, the group flees out of the temple gates.

Xie Lian sits back and waits.

After a moment, he hears heavy footsteps walking towards him, and the stench of Death Chi grows stronger in the air—so thick, Xie Lian has to fight back the urge to gag.

“That was an awfully big scene you made, just to die,” the creature hisses.

Xie Lian smiles.

“I won’t die.”

He’s pretty familiar with just how much his body can withstand, by now.

There’s no demon that can kill him.

“Brave little mortal.” the creature hisses, stalking closer.

Xie Lian can’t see how pale his skin is, or the pointed tips of his ears. Eyes blood red, fangs razor sharp.

Even so, he doesn’t seem particularly impressed.

Still. The only other person in this room is a demon—and as such, Xie Lian has no qualms about opening his eyes, making the creature scramble back with surprise upon seeing the shackle.

“There are no mortals here.”

Wen Jiao falls silent, but Xie Lian can hear his heavy, shocked breathing.

“Did they tell you about the stories I was telling, out in the square? I’m sure they must have,” the god muses, twirling a lock of hair around his finger. “There was one I didn’t tell them.”

See—when he was in the Cloud Recesses, he did take a quick peek inside their libraries.

The sect wasn’t good for much, really—but they’re excellent record keepers. And Xie Lian’s fingertips are sensitive enough to read characters just from feeling the ink on a page.

The prince can hear it, the way the demon slowly paces around him—like it hasn’t quite decided what to do with him yet—and he smiles.

“Once upon a time, in the City of Gusu, there was a young cultivator by the name of Wen Jiao.”

His pacing stops, and Xie Lian smiles.

“He had one dream—to become a god. He went to every single sect in the center of the Cultivation world, but no one would take him…” the prince trails off, leaning his elbow against one of the temple steps. “Because he was cruel, and prone to violence.”

There’s an angry hiss.

“In his desperation, he climbed to the top of the city walls during the mid autumn festival, hoping to release his Lanterns from the greatest height—but in his eagerness, he fell to his death.”

Xie Lian shakes his head, clicking his nails against the marbles. “Very sad.”

“It’s a shame you’ll never get the chance to tell the story to anyone else,” The Demon snarls, eyeing the cursed shackle in the crown prince’s eyes, his won gaze narrowed. “Even if I can’t kill you—I can still imprison you here.”

“True,” Xie Lian agrees. “But that’s fine.”

The demon stares at him with uncertainty, and he explains—

“I’ve been in your city for a little while now. Have I interfered with you until now?”

Xie Lian has never been the best liar.

“…You haven’t.”

But to a creature like this? He can do it without remorse.

“Why should I care if you want to impersonate a god?” Xie Lian shrugs, “Look what the heavens did to me.”

After all—compared to what he used to be, he knows he must make a miserable sight.

Wen Jiao looks him over, and…he doesn’t seem to disagree. “Then why did you come here?”

He sits up, stretching his arms over his head. “Because—I know why you’re doing this,” he muses, glancing around at the heavy state of dark energy all around him. “At first—I thought it was an array built to inflict a curse, but then I realized…”

The god raises his chin.

“You’re cultivating, aren’t you?”

Well, he’s trying to. In a sick, barbaric way. That much is obvious.

“Still trying to ascend.”

Wen Jiao glares, a forked tongue flicking out between his lips, tasting the air with annoyance.

“But it’s not a matter of spiritual power, is it?”

That lock of hair is still twirling around his finger, just as nimbly as the threads he pulls all day long.

“If it was, you would have ascended many times over,” Xie Lian shrugs. “But you haven’t.”

“What’s it to you?!” The demon snarls, eyes flaring.

“I was cast out, remember?” The prince points out, stretching his legs. “Nothing would please me more than to spit in their eyes by helping a fellow reject ascend. I’ve done it twice, you know.” Xie Lian adds airily. “I’m a bit of an expert.”

Wen Jiao pauses, and…

He’s listening.

“What can you do that I haven’t already tried?”

“You just need a Heavenly Calamity,” Xie Lian murmurs.

He sounds especially believable now, because he’s sticking close to the truth, only occasionally diverging.

“And I know how to trigger one.”

“…how?”

The god snorts, standing up. “I’m not telling you. Then you wouldn’t need me anymore.”

Wen Jiao slithers around him, wrapping himself around a nearby pillar with a sulking sigh.

They do have aligned interests, and…

He doesn’t have anything to lose by agreeing.

“…What would it require?”

“Timing is key,” Xie Lian explains. “The next auspicious moment will come in eleven months. And when it does, I will help you call the calamity. Until then—I’ll work on your tapestry.”

Wen Jiao pauses, nails digging into the side of the pillar.

“Tapestry?”

“Oh, yes.” The god nods, blinking owlishly. “All of the gods in Heaven—my tapestries hang in their palaces, telling the stories of their lives and ascensions. Imagine how jealous they’ll be, when you arrive with yours already made.”

Wen Jiao likes the sound of that.

“I’ll need a new loom, and proper threads,” Xie Lian stops in the middle of the hall, tapping his chin. “Oh—and an assistant.” He tilts his head back over his shoulder, looking in the demon’s direction—as if he could see him. “Thin you can manage that?”

Wen Jiao huffs.

“Obviously.”

He doesn’t see the smile on Xie Lian’s face, when he turns around.

“Perfect. We’re in business, then.”

It feels a little dirty, playing tricks—but…

When Xie Lian feels the evil all around him, so sharp, it makes his eyes sting—he doesn’t feel so guilty.

He’s transported to the palace of Gusu—still a fine, elegant building. Walls of white jade, floors tiled with hues of green and blue.

Meant to mimic the pattern of the mighty river that flows outside the city walls.

As a city state, Daqing technically has a king, not a lord.

In this case, that would be Wen Sicong, Wen Jiao’s son and living heir.

A greedy, selfish man who acts as little more than a figurehead—drinking himself into a stupor, locking himself away with his swords and his courtesans.

The prince of Daqing is his grandson.

Wen Mao is a boy of just seven years old—and shy by nature.

He watches Xie Lian from a distance—curious, but clearly too nervous to ever actually approach.

And it saddens the god—because clearly, the boy has very little to do with the sins of his father and grandfather.

But the crimes of Wen Jiao are so severe, so profound—without a doubt, disaster will come to their bloodline, sooner or later.

Maybe Wen Mao will be lucky and escape karma’s wrath—but somewhere down the line, his descendants will suffer.

The god sets up his work space in a set of chambers on the eastern end of the palace, with so many unoccupied rooms, he ends up with an entire wing to himself.

Which suits his plans just fine.

But in one regard, his accommodations fall short.

“Amateur! UNACCEPTABLE!”

A bronze chalice smacks against the wall, making the assistant flinch and tremble. “I-I’m sorry sir, I’ll get it right next time!”

“You think I’ll give you another chance?!” The weaver snarls.

(He feels horrible. Absolutely awful. He’s probably going to cry about this later.)

He rounds on one of the guards, crossing his arms. “I’ve had enough of this—just go and fetch my old assistant for me. Everyone you’ve brought so far has been an absolute disgrace!”

The young man hesitates, looking back and forth between Mr. Hua, and the newest assistant.

But before he can say much more—the weaver grabs him by the front of his shirt, yanking him in with surprising strength.

“Did I stutter?”

(Forget crying a little later, he’s going to cry himself to sleep.)

“…What’s the name of your assistant, Mr. Hua?”

The hostile act drops a little too quickly—but Xie Lian was already overstretching his negligible acting skills, trying to pull that one off.

“You’re actually already familiar with him.”

After sundown, a platoon of guards returns with Xie Lian’s official “assistant.”

And the teenager is thrashing and howling like a cat that’s about to be given a bath.

“I set let GO of me! I didn’t even DO anything this time!” The teenager has one soldier gripping him under each arm, practically carrying him along as his feet flail and kick. “HEY!”

He might be thin—nearly everyone in the city is—but he’s strong, enough so that both of the soldiers dragging him seem slightly belabored.

“You know what, Captain Chen?!” The teenager cries, glaring at the leader of the squad. “I always KNEW you were a creepy old PERVERT!”

The leader of the squadron stops ahead of them, turning his head back to glare at the young man.

“Hah?!”

“You always enjoyed whipping me a LITTLE too much, I’m just saying!” The teenager glares, dark hair whipping around his face as he struggles. “And look at you now!”

“You aren’t even trying to make up a reason to drag me down here anymore! Well, I’ll have you know—I’m saving myself for marriage! Or the first man that asks—but definitely not you!”

“You know, we really didn’t bring you here for a whipping, but you make it tempting.”

“See what I mean?! You—!”

The door to their destination opens, and Xiong Li is thrown inside without much preamble, tumbling across the floor until he lands at Xie Lian’s feet.

“Mr. hua, your assistant has arrived.”

The young man lifts his head up, slightly disoriented.

On one hand—he’s relieved to see that the Weaver isn’t dead. But on the other—he’s never been quite so confused in his young life.

Xie Lian smiles politely at the guards, bowing his head.

“Thank you, Captain Chen. That will be all for today.”

When the doors shut, Xiong Li sits up, rubbing the back of his head, glancing around the room.

By far, this is the fanciest place he’s ever been in—in his entire life.

There’s an actual door, for starters. And multiple bedrooms. Art hanging on the walls.

In the center of the room sits a massive loom, with threads of every color hanging in spools along the walls, waiting to be selected.

“So I’m…your weaving assistant now?” Xiong Li questions

Xie Lian scratches the side of his head, having the sense to look a little sheepish.

“I’m sorry about the way they treated you,” he mutters. “But I needed an excuse to have you brought here, and that made the most sense.”

At first, Xiong Li waves him off, not particularly upset. “They always treat me like that, it’s not your fault.”

But then, he pauses.

“But…why did you need me? And why are you in the Wen’s palace? And where have you been—?”

Xie Lian holds up a finger to stop him, and the boy falls silent, watching him intently.

“I wish I could make this easier,” the god sighs. “But I’m about to put a lot on your shoulders.”

Xiong Li’s brow furrows. “…Like what?”

He hasn’t bothered to stand up—not quite yet. Besides—he didn’t take that fall quite as gracefully as he’s pretending he did, and his shoulder is screaming with pain.

After a moment, Xie Lian kneels beside him.

In general, he’s never been the most conventional person—but even for him, the idea of liberating an entire city from the grip of a powerful demon with no spiritual powers, and only the help of two teenagers…

It’s requires a stretch of the imagination.

Still, he has to try.

“I am going to give you a lot of information at once,” Xie Lian explains slowly, flexing his fingertips. “And I’m not going to be able to explain how I know most of it.”

Xiong Li frowns, because that isn’t exactly comforting.

Still—Xie Lian knows exactly what to say.

“But the next time you see Lan An,” he murmurs, feeling the way Xiong Li immediately stiffens upon hearing that name, “He’ll verify that everything I am about to tell you is true.”

There are few things in this world that the boy has faith in—and Lan An is one of them.

He’s the only person that has Xiong Li’s unconditional trust.

So, if he’ll verify it, then…

“Why me?” He mumbles, still not understanding why Xie Lian sent for him, of all people.

In truth? Because he’s the strongest mortal left within the gates of Gusu. But also…

“The day that those cultivators came,” Xie Lian explains, “I heard you tell your friend that you would rather die helping people than run away. Did you mean that?”

The teenager stiffens, surprised that the weaver actually heard that, but…he nods.

The god smiles, and he braces himself.

Xiong Li nearly jumps out of his skin when the weaver reaches for his throat, instinctively distrusting of being touched by a stranger, but—

Then, Xie Lian’s fingers wrap around the iron shackle there, gripping tightly.

“…what are you—?”

/CRACK!/

Xiong Li goes completely still, his eyes widening.

In Daqing, your first shackle is placed around your throat in infancy, before you ever leave your mother’s arms.

They’re replaced as you outgrow them, but—

His entire life, he’s felt the weight of chains on his skin.

Now, for the first time—he watches as the iron of the shackle that once sat at the base of his throat fragment and crumble, falling to the floor in several different pieces.

At first, all he can do is sit there, staring blankly.

Xie Lian rarely reacts to pain anymore.

But this—this is more than just damage to his body.

To shatter cursed iron with no spiritual energy requires incredible strength—and it also leaves your own body vulnerable

Xie Lian’s fingers are scorched to the bone—but it’s his spirit that stings with agony.

He lets out a pained nose, clutching his limbs to his chest, biting back any other sound, and Xiong Li…

Just sits there, eyes impossibly wide, fingers wrapped around his throat—now, for the first time in his life, bare.

“You…how…how did you—?”

It takes Xie Lian a moment to speak, lips trembling. He isn’t accustomed to actually feeing his pain anymore—so when something is severe enough for hm to feel it like this—

He really doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“I…already told you,” he rasps. “I can’t explain.”

Xiong Li still has his fingers clutched around his neck, trying to wrap his mind around what just happened, because—

In a century, no one in Daqing has ever had their shackle removed without Wen Jiao releasing it himself. Never.

And now…

He swallows dryly, shaking himself out of it.

“Are—are you alright?” He mutters, dropping his hands as he leans closer to Xie Lian, who is still clutching his hands to his chest like he’s been burned. “Your hands—”

“It’s fine,” Xie Lian mutters, shaking his head. “I’ll heal.”

He always does, after all—and while this isn’t pleasant, Xie Lian doubts recovering will take more than waiting overnight. He knew after touching Liao Yong’s shackle, when he first came to Gusu, that his body would protest touching it again.

He planned for this.

Xiong Li sits back, shivering. He feels—

He feels everything more sharply now. The cold against his skin, the aches in his body. How hungry and tried he is.

But his sight also feels sharpened, like the world is brought into greater focus. Even scents and sounds are heightened.

It’s like he’s spent his entire life living with something shrouding over him, muffling his senses—and now, for the first time—

Xiong Li’s hand drifts down pressing over his chest, his eyes welling up with tears.

He’s free.

There’s warmth under his palm.

This unfamiliar sense of heat building in his chest, like a small crackling flame—and when he looks up at Xie Lian, his eyes wide, he whispers—

“Mr. Hua, what’s happening?”

“That…” Xie Lian closes his eyes, fingers still trembling, “That’s your golden core.”

Xiong Li tries to process that, eyebrows knitting together. “But…I don’t have…”

Xie Lian has to lean against the wall for the moment—sitting up without assistance is too difficult.

“Wen Jiao was an average cultivator at best when he died,” the gods mutters.

“He doesn’t have the means to shatter a golden core.”

It’s something that the children who are spirited away to the Cloud Recesses already know, but—Xiong Li never had the chance to learn.

He takes deep, unsteady breaths, and it’s almost like…feeling alive for the first time.

It’s like there’s a fire in his chest, sparking brighter and faster with every breath he takes.

“Why…” He swallows dryly. “Why did you do that for me? And what…what do you mean about Wen Jiao being an average cultivator—?”

And this is where they get to the part with Xie Lian dumping information on the young man—all at once.

That Wen Jiao is not a god, but a demon.

That this city is known by the name of Gusu, not Daqing.

That the chains the citizens wear are not out of punishment at all.

The chains exist to allow Wen Jiao to feed off of their golden cores like a parasite—until, eventually, they die.

“Gusu…” Xiong Li repeats slowly, his expression pinched with thought. “That’s why…”

Xie Lian wipes a bead of sweat from his brow, brought on by the exhaustion of his body fighting to purge the cursed energy from the shackle. “Why what?”

The teenager reaches for the book that he has tucked into the waist of his pants, “Lan An…the last time he was here…”

The book he gave Xiong Li—it was another romance.

Lan An has always been aware of it being Xiong Li’s favorite genre, and while he typically doesn’t enjoy stories like that—he’ll bring one for Xiong Li once a year, and the boy will read it until the spine breaks from wear.

But this year was different.

Lan An never gave Xiong Li a book that he wasn’t allow to show anyone else before.

And when Xiong Li read it, he didn’t understand why it had to be a secret. It was just some fantasy, not even that romantic, written about a general and a princess.

It was interesting enough, but it ended with her slitting her own throat, and him ascending as a god—so he wasn’t really that fond of the ending.

Still, he listened to Lan An’s request—and he showed it to no one.

Except now, he’s realizing…that general…

Ascended in Gusu.

Which means…not only is the weaver likely telling him the truth—

It means that story likely isn’t a fantasy at all.

“Gusu…is a real place,” he repeats slowly. “We’re in Gusu?”

Xie Lian nods, pulling his knees up against his chest. “One of the oldest cities in the world.”

Xiong Li presses his hands to his temples, his eyes wide. “And…” he glances back up at Xie Lian, one question still unanswered, “Why did you choose me?”

The God sighs, focusing on taking even breaths to steady himself. “Two reasons: first, I needed someone capable.”

Xie Lian can’t collect Spiritual Power on his own—but now, without his shackle, Xiong Li can. And from what he’s watching now, he can tell that even with no training, Xiong Li’s golden core is strong. Rapidly sparking with power, like a star that has just sparked to life.

He’s also clever, perceptive—with a durable body.

The perfect combination for a cultivator.

“And…” Xie Lian sighs. “Most arrays—like the one Wen Jiao has in the grand temple—are sealed with blood. But Wen Jiao was already dead when he built it.”

Xiong Li’s brow furrows. Most of this is high level magic—going way above his head in terms of understanding, but he tries to keep up.

“Why does that matter?”

“His own blood couldn’t have sealed that array,” Xie Lian explains. “How much do you know about cultivation?”

“Pretty much nothing,” the teenager admits.

“Most of the time, cultivators are born equal in terms of capability. There are those with natural talent, but golden cores are almost always the same at birth. It’s how you train and develop your core that determines your strength.”

It has nothing to do with who your family is, or what position you’re born into.

For example—Mu Qing was the son of a woodworker and a house maid. and yet, his cultivation level will always be higher than that of someone like Lang Qianqiu, who was born in a royal bloodline.

Both are powerful, to be sure—but Mu Qing has a natural intelligence and skill, allowing him to reach a higher level.

While class divides matter in terms of social perceptions—they don’t when it comes to the bare science of what cultivation actually is.

“But…” Xie Lian takes a deep breath, flexing his fingers—they hurt less now, which means his body is finally starting to recover. “The exception to that is blood magic.”

“Like…the kind of magic sealing the array?”

“Yes,” Xie Lian nods. “I don’t think that Wen Jiao targeted the descendants of Xianle blood out of some sort of grudge.”

In his conversations with the demon, he seemed apathetic on the subject of politics—and he’s too young to have genuine reason to hate the people of Xianle.

“I think it’s because it’s Xianle blood that created the array in the first place.”

And for an array this powerful—that would require old blood. Ancient blood, even by the standards of Gusu.

“…And…what does that have to do with me?” Xiong Li frowns.

“I mean—I’m a descendant of Xianle, but so is almost everyone else in Daq—Gusu.”

Xie Lian takes a deep breath. “They don’t teach you much about Xianle, I’m assuming?”

The teenager shakes his head, eyes wide.

“The founder—his name was Xie Bolin,” the god explains.

“Not much is known about the family before that—just that it was already ancient. He founded the city of Xianle, and his eldest son, Xie Feng, carried on the family name and royal bloodline. But—” Xie Lian holds up a finger, “The Central Plains are a vast territory.”

There’s a misconception among many, that the rapid turnover of empires in the center of the continent is because their predecessors were weak—but this isn’t true.

It’s because the territory is immense, surrounded by enemies—and as such, it’s difficult to defend.

Xianle lasted far longer than any of it’s predecessors—and certainly longer than the kingdom of Yong’an did, afterwards.

Because Bolin had been raised through a war, and he had learned his lessons well.

“At the time, Xianle was vulnerable to invasions from the north, so…”

Xie Lian feels odd now, repeating lessons he learned as a boy, barely able to focus on the page in front of him, whining and trying to take naps in Mei Nianqing’s lap—but his teacher was stern, insistent even—

Saying it was important to know one’s history.

“He sent his second son, Xie Cheng, to help defend and fortify the great walled city of the north, Gusu.”

As such, all of the invasions that Xianle would face, up until the end—came from south, east, or west—never the North.

“After the fall of Xianle, Gusu became an independent city, and the Xie Branch that ruled over the walls took on a new name—Xiong.”

Xiong Li stops, his breath halting.

“But…I…”

He never knew his mother, or any other relatives. Never knew…anything about where he came from.

“They would have been the oldest bloodline in Gusu when Wen Jiao arrived,” Xie Lian explains carefully. “The last King of Gusu, his name was Xiong Zhan. When I looked into the records of the evacuees from Gusu after Wen Jiao’s arrival—there’s no indication that he escaped.”

Meaning—Wen Jiao most likely slaughtered the King of Gusu, and it’s his blood that binds the curse to the city now. That curses the iron in the shackles his subjects wear around their necks.

And, from what Xie Lian can tell, Xiong Li is his last living grandson.

At first, part of him hoped that, as an ancestor of the Xiong line, he might be able to use his own blood to brake the array.

He already tried that in the temple, provoking the gods into beating him while he stood before ‘Wen Jiao’s’ altar, but to no effect.

He’s too far removed at this point—and while Xie Lian’s blood is incredibly powerful in it’s own right—it can’t break the array.

Xiong Li’s, however, stands the most likely chance of doing that.

“Um…” the teenager trails off, thinking. “Does that mean I’ll have to…die?”

Xie Lian stops, then laughs—almost surprised by the morbidity of that idea. “No! It doesn’t take that much blood—just a small cut, and you’ll be fine.”

Xiong Li nods, forming a plan in his head. “I guess…I could find a way to sneak in—”

“That won’t be necessary.”

Xie Lian shakes his head. “Wen Jiao would kill you before you got that close. No—when the time is right, you’ll be able to walk right in.”

“And…what am I supposed to do until then?”

Xie Lian flexes his fingers again, testing them—and they hurt even less now.

“Train.”

“Train…in what?”

“Well…” Xie Lian tilts his head back against the wall, turning his head towards the window. Facing away from Xiong Li, he opens his eyes.

They ache more now, by the day—but he couldn’t tell you why.

“I’m going to make a cultivator out of you.”

By day, Xie Lian works at his loom. It’s difficult at first, fingers aching with each move—but after one day, he’s fully recovered.

Xiong Li sits by his side, holding his threads—trying to look knowledgeable on the subject when the guards arrive.

But the nights are different.

Xie Lian shows the young man how to develop his core—new cultivation methods—

But not his own, which requires abstinence. Xiong Li flat out refused that idea, and when Xie Lian asked if he had a particular reason for that—

Well, the young man turned red all the way to his ears.

They practice sword forms with blades swiped from the palace armory, Xie Lian teaching him ancient methods, passed down for generations.

And Xiong Li absorbs every lesson like a flower reaching towards the sun.

Bright, eager—and burning with talent.

He finds it surprising at times, that two young men with so much talent—more than Xie Lian has seen since he himself was a young cultivator—could be born on the same day, in the same city.

In many ways, it almost seems like fate.

Nearly eight centuries before, the cultivation world changed.

A young, impossibly talented prince—beloved by his people—defeated a heavenly calamity far beyond what been faced in the past as a mere mortal.

It’s impossibly rare, to rise so high.

And almost as if pulled by the inevitable nature of gravity, this crown prince fell like no other.

By his own choice. His refusal to turn his back on the world.

And now, centuries later, that same refusal will change the Cultivation World once more.

But this time, it marks the beginning not of a fall—but an ascension.

Not of a tragedy, like every other story that Xie Lian, the Flower Crowned Martial God, the Guoshi Fangxin, General of Yong’an, the famed Blind Weaver has told before.

This, was the beginning of a new tale.

A tale of lies, death and betrayal.

But also hope, forgiveness, and grace.

It would mark a new age in the heavens, and, in turn, lead to a new era—sparking a revolution in the world of Cultivation.

Before any of that, there was only a fallen god, two young cultivators, and a city enslaved.

Before there was a war for the heavens, there was a battle for the great walled city of the North.

Before there was a tale of redemption—there was a love story.

And it began in Gusu.

🏮 YEAR EIGHT HUNDRED 🏮

Night lays quietly, over the city of Daqing. Like a heavy, dark blanket—pulling her people into their homes, sleeping in their beds.

The streets are lit only by the light of the moon, shining down like a final witness.

A weaver sits before his loom.

In the center of the city, a sword rests patiently in it’s scabbard.

Outside the walls of Gusu, a guqin’s strings remain silent.

Slowly, one last golden thread is pulled into place—and the tapestry, one that was a year in the making, has been finished.

The god rises to his feet, pulling and tying off the edges of the tapestry from the loom, carefully rolling it down, summoning the guards to help him lift it.

After all, Xie Lian started a countdown, three hundred and sixty four days before.

A Heavenly Calamity is coming.

It takes three men to carry the tapestry, rolled up and propped on their shoulders like a carpet. Xie Lian trails beside them, hands folded in his sleeves, allowing himself to enjoy the breeze on his face.

His eyes pulse, like there’s a new heartbeat beneath each lid.

Finally, they approach the steps of the grand temple, the moon rising high in the sky—as Xie Lian insisted.

After all, the events about to unfold are not for mortal eyes. Better to face them while the city sleeps.

The tapestry is dropped on the temple floor with a heavy thud.

Dust is kicked up in the air—and this time, the guards don’t wait for Wen Jiao to descend down from the ceiling, hissing, before they take their leave.

When the temple doors shut, Xie Lian smiles, hands still calmly folded inside his sleeves. “Are you ready, Master Wen?”

There’s the sound of scales sliding over tile as the demon descends down from the rafter. Sometimes, he has the capability of pretending to wear a somewhat more human skin, but…

Wen Jiao’s true form is half man, half snake.

“I’ve been ready for a hundred years…” He hisses.

“Good,” Xie Lian turns his chin down, to where the tapestry lays at his feet. “It’s almost time. Would you like to take a look?”

The demon slithers forward eagerly, tongue flicking out between his teeth as clawed hands grip the edge of the tapestry, giving it a heavy shake.

The cloth rolls out, tens of meters in length and diameter—and from the sheer scale of the thing—it’s difficult for Wen Jiao to really see the story it tells from the ground level.

So, naturally, he coils around a nearby pillar, slithering back up to the rafters.

Now, looking down upon the tapestry from a height of dozens of meters…

Wen Jiao glares, his eyes narrowing into slits.

“What is this?!” He hisses, irises burning like brimstone in the dark.

Cursed shackles gleam up at him.

“It’s what I promised you,” Xie Lian explains.

“You—” The demon sputters, his voice ringing throughout the empty, desecrated temple. “You said you would make a tapestry for my heavenly palace!”

“Tapestries tell stories,” the edge of Xie Lian’s boot taps the bottom corner of the piece, “and this is yours.”

“It’s a disgrace!”

The scenes before him—they depict a monster.

Maybe not so much through his form, but through acts.

They show a city that looks like a hell scape. Hundreds of miserable humans, piled together, flailing for freedom, and…

Wen Jiao sitting on top of the heap, holding the chains.

“This—doesn’t make me look anything like a god!” Wen Joao howls. “How is anyone going to be jealous if I show up with this?! You tricked me, you—!”

“You aren’t a god,” Xie Lian replies calmly. “Why would you look like one?”

“I—I’m about to face my calamity!”

“Are you?” Xie Lian replies coldly, and Wen Jiao only now seems to notice—

The bandage around his neck—

It’s…moving?

“You better hurry down here and face it then.”

Slowly, it begins to dawn on the demon.

“You…” He whispers, voice trembling with fury. “You TRICKED me!”

“Mmm…” Xie Lian shrugs, “Actually, I think I’m the only one in this situation that’s been honest.”

The demon plunges down, claws outstretched—and the god easily dodges out of his way, leaving him to punch a hole in the temple floor.

His next attack is so ferocious that when Xie Lian dodges it, his momentum carries him all the way down the temple hall, crashing through the front doors, sending demon tumbling down the steps.

He lands in the street below as Xie Lian makes a calm, orderly exit from the temple.

“You aren’t a god,” Xie Lian says those words again, but this time—he intentionally raises his voice, allowing it to carry across the square and into the home of the sleeping city dwellers. “And the name of this city isn’t Daqing!”

Wen Jiao sneers and hisses, rising up.

His tail whips and rattles behind him, eyes burning in the night. “Cities are reborn every year. They are named by the people who rule them! And I AM the God of Daqing!’

He lashes out now, talons bared, aiming straight for Xie Lian’s face, but—

He’s caught by the wrist.

A smaller, pale, almost delicate hand—gripping the limb of a powerful demon—

Seemingly without any strain.

When Wen Jiao looks down, the pattern of those shackles stares right back up at him.

Xie Lian believes in speaking softly—even if it might make him look weak.

He isn’t a young, arrogant prince anymore.

His blood is ancient, and his scars run deep.

But when the Crown Prince of Xianle finds the right moment, he reminds the world that he can roar.

“GODS DO NOT ENSLAVE THEIR BELIEVERS!”

/BOOM!/

Using that grip in on the demon’s wrist, Xie Lian flips the creature over his head, slamming him down so violently, the front steps of the grand temple turn into something much more similar to a crater, stones and timber collapsing under the force of the impact.

The sound is loud enough that it leaves several citizens stirring in their beds, drawing close to their windows to peek outside.

Where they see a foul, scaled beast, half human, half serpent, struggling to pull himself out of the wreckage.

Ruoye whips around Xie Lian in a fury.

Kicking up a wind that makes his hair stir around him, hands balled into fists by his sides.

“This city is called GUSU!” He cries, his voice ringing through the air like the strike of a bell, signaling a call to action. “AND HER PEOPLE ARE NOT YOUR SLAVES!”

Wen Jiao smiles.

“…You surprised me,” he admits, “I wasn’t expecting you to have a grip like that.”

He slithers out of the hole—and suddenly, his form begins to grow.

Xie Lian stands still, grimly aware of the fact that the demon is expanding to nearly five times it’s original size.

After absorbing countless lives over an entire century—Xie Lian would expect something like this.

Now, the serpent is large enough to fill the city square—and when he laughs, it feels like the sky itself rumbles.

“But you know…I think I’ve decided on a new plan!”

His tail whips around, taking out an entire terrace, sending rubble and debris raining down.

Xie Lian doesn’t react as Ruoye smacks the most threatening projectiles out of the way. A small shard of class slices his cheek—and he doesn’t even flinch.

“MAYBE THE BEST WAY TO BECOME A GOD…” The demon snarls, “IS IF I BRING JUN WU YOUR HEAD!”

An interesting thought. Xie Lian can’t imagine the heavenly emperor would be pleased.

Despite everything, Jun Wu was always kind to him.

“You can try,” the prince replies calmly.

“YOU THINK YOU STAND A CHANCE?” The demon howls. “You have NO spiritual powers—YOU DON’T EVEN HAVE A WEAPON!”

That reminds Xie Lian to push up his sleeves, binding them at the elbow.

“I tend to do too much damage with swords,” he murmurs. “My bare hands are better suited.”

That makes Wen Jiao snarl in annoyance—no, with offense that Xie Lian would think him so easily dealt with.

“Before you get so cocky, you should ask yourself—are you sure these people AREN’T MY SLAVES?!”

As he says those words, tens of thousands of iron shackles, all around the city—they begin to glow red hot, and Xie Lian’s expression turns grim.

From several blocks away, a young cultivator leans back against an alley wall, whistling under his breath—listening to the commotion.

Technically, he’s supposed to be waiting for some sort of signal—but Xiong Li isn’t sure if the battle starting is much of a signal. After all, wouldn’t Mr. Hua have worked something into the conversation? Like…

‘I guess we should…START fighting!’

Or,

‘It TIME to kill you!’

You know. Something subtle, like that. How else is Xiong Li supposed to know when the opportune moment arrives?

He kicks a rock with the tip of his boot, fidgeting eagerly.

It’s not like he’s a mind reader, y’know, but—

But then, the city takes on a reddish haze.

“…” Xiong Li tips his head back—and then he sees it, creeping over the sky.

A red shadow, growing along the edges of the full moon.

A…Lunar eclipse? Right now?

“…Well,” he mutters, pushing off of the wall. “That feels like a sign.”

He darts into the street, knowing his path well—and as soon as his feet touch the cobble stones…

Doors begin opening all around him.

All in pace with each other, almost like…

Ants, moving in a hill.

Xiong Li pauses, glancing around—until he sees the first person.

A young girl, her hair in low pigtails, standing in the doorway of her home.

At first, Xiong Li sees no reason for worry, until he sees her eyes.

Glowing a violent shade of red in the dark—matching the cursed iron shackle around her neck.

There’s no awareness in that gaze.

“Uh…” Xiong Li takes a step back, glancing around.

There’s an awkward moment in any young man’s life, where he sticks out in a crowd. Xiong Li is pretty used to that, he’s a very unique person.

But you don’t want to be the only conscious one in a crowd of violent zombies.

It’s not fun. He definitely wouldn’t recommend it.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god!”

You know, in the stories they’ll tell about this later, he’s always described as this brave, heroic figure.

And Xiong Li is brave, it’s true—but he’s never been great at keeping a straight face.

He also might be strong, for a human—but he isn’t a god, and he’s only been training as a cultivator for a year, so…

The teenager wheezes a little, throwing himself up onto the rooftop, scrambling to find purchase.

“This…is not as easy as they make it look in the books!”

And leaping between rooftops? Not easy. Not at all—but better than nearly getting clawed to death by his neighbors on the streets below.

He barely manages to catch himself when he leaps onto the temple roof, biceps trembling as he heaves himself up onto the ledge.

Honestly—he’s seen Lan An do this a thousand times, and he can yank himself up with one hand, like nothing! And he weighs more than Xiong Li does, since disciples in the cloud recesses actually get regular meals.

For a moment Xiong Li sits there, wiping the sweat from his brow.

“…Just how strong is that freak?!” He mutters under his breath.

Well, this would probably be easier if he was using spiritual power—but Mr. Hua told him that he should save it until he absolutely needed it, so…

Xiong Li sighs, glancing to the east.

The battle between Wen Jiao and the weaver is still raging and…

Xiong Li knows now, why Mr. Hua couldn’t explain much to him in the beginning.

Because he’s obviously not a ghost or a demon—but no human could fight light that either. Especially not blind.

In any case—he’s got his own job to do.

The mortal finds an open window—slipping his feet inside, carefully scaling down one of the temple pillars.

“Just a little bit of blood…” He mutters under his breath, running towards the altar. “And then it’s over.”

It’ll all be over.

He pulls a dagger from his hip, slipping it across his palm with ease, barely wincing when his skin splits open.

For a moment, he stands over the altar, watching as the blood drips down his fingers, wondering.

He bleeds just the same as anyone else.

Is it actually special?

He’s spent most of his life going to bed hungry. With shoes that didn’t even fit him. Struggling to get by on scraps.

And now, staring at his blood, he can’t help but wonder?

Is it really the blood of kings?

Three drops land on the altar.

/Thud!/

/Thud!/

/Thud!/

Xiong Li waits, staring, but…nothing seems to happen.

He can still hear the screams of the citizens outside. The temple—it still feels like death in here.

Did he not use enough? Mr. Hua said it would only take a few drops, but…

Xiong Li squeezes the cut on his palm, gritting his teeth as more blood wells up, dripping down onto the altar until a small puddle forms.

Still, nothing.

Hell—part of him even wonders if the array isn’t directly ON the altar, so he tries the floor, the walls.

He turns the back half of the temple into some twisted, macabre version of a child’s art project, finger painting with his own blood, but…

Nothing.

Xiong Li glances down at the knife in his palm.

Maybe since he’s the grandson and not the person that was used, it needs more?

He almost goes to cut himself again, but—

Mr. Hua seemed certain, when he told Xiong Li that it wouldn’t take much. He knows far more about cultivation than Xiong Li does—hell, Xiong Li has reason to suspect that he’s a god now, so…

It can’t be that.

The amount isn’t the issue. It’s something else.

Then, it occurs to him.

Mr. Hua has taught Xiong Li a lot about cultivation, in the last year. And while the teenager might not have perfected his parkour skills—he did learn quite a bit about magic.

And, by extension, arrays.

“…It’s not in the temple,” he mutters under his breath, and then—it really starts to hit him hard, and he goes running towards the demolished front entrance. “Mr. Hua!” He calls, knowing he doesn’t have to be that loud for the god to hear him, “The array isn’t in the temple!”

It made sense originally, when you consider that the temple sits in the center of the city but…

This array is meant to keep people caged in—and it’s aura extends all the way to Gusu.

Xie Lian, overhearing him—even a quarter of a mile a way—frowns, eyes widening.

“…It’s in the walls,” he mutters under his breath, head instinctively whipping in that direction, even if he can’t see the white marble behemoths looming in the distance.

Wen Jiao smirks, spitting venom down at the little god. Xie Lian dodges,and the ground hisses on impact.

“I’ll admit, using the Xiong boy against me was clever—but now, he’s as far away from the target as he can get, isn’t he?!” The demon cackles.

It was clever, Xie Lian admits—clearly choosing to set the Temple up as a decoy, by not allowing any cultivators inside.

By sending Xiong Li to the city center, technically Xie Lian allowed the boy to slip right into a trap—because now, he’s in the middle of Wen Jiao’s horde of mindless subjects.

Still, Xie Lian doesn’t seem particularly worried.

“He’ll make it,” the god shrugs. “But you won’t.”

Wen Jiao hisses in offense, but before he can retort, the god wraps his fist around the demon’s tail, and his eyes widen.

Xie Lian yanks, swinging his arms around until Wen Jiao, who is scrambling to try and find purchase, is yanked into the air, spinning around like a lasso.

See—Xie Lian doesn’t have to be worried about whether or not Xiong Li makes it to the walls, because he already planned for that.

And, despite the exceptional strength he’s displaying now—the real muscle of the operation hasn’t arrived yet.

No, he’s not worried.

Not even when he hears Xiong Li struggling through the crowds, his sword clashing as he attempts to get through the horde, a seemingly hopeless task.

After all, he’s just one person, but…Xie Lian never planned on having Xiong Li work alone.

The teenager stumbles.

There’s just…

He lands in the market square, hard—barely catching himself with the hilt of his sword.

There’s too many of them.

His neighbors. HIs school teachers. Kids he’s known since they could barely walk, and—

Xiong Li doesn’t want to hurt them.

His head turns to the side—and he can see a window there, the same one he used to sit in, every single day. The shopkeeper never minded, since Xiong Li never caused him any trouble.

He liked that spot. It was in the sun. Easy to watch the other kids play, and…

It had an easy view of the front gates.

That way, he’d always know first, if…

If Lan An came back home. Even if Xiong Li always desperately pretended not to care.

A set of hands close around his throat, and Xiong Li starts to think it might be time for—

/BOOM!/

The citizens in the square go still, their eyes flickering slightly, and…

Xiong Li hears music.

Playing a soft, calming tune—sort of out of place, in the hellish atmosphere all around, but…beautiful.

The notes carry through the square, bringing…

The sound of a guqin.

His head whips to the side, and—

In spite of everything, Xiong Li smiles.

Standing in the gates of Gusu is a lone cultivator.

Robes flapping slightly in the breeze, the strands of his headband blowing behind him.

His eyes rest on the young woman holding Xiong Li by the neck, eyes narrowed with intent.

There’s another flick of his fingers across the strings, and just like that—she’s sent stumbling back.

“You don’t get to touch him,” the cultivator mutters flatly, his expression dark.

That’s when he notices Xiong Li’s neck—

Stripped free of it’s shackle.

His friend beams, leaping to his feet. “You know something!” He calls over “You’re always the one trying to get me to go with you, but why should I? You always come back anyway!”

Lan An almost smiles.

Even in this situation, the idiot still tries to get a laugh out of him.

“Look, I—” Xiong Li pushes himself free, “I need to get on top of the wall, can you keep the path clear?”

Lan An surveys the crowd around them.

“…Yeah,” he replies, his gaze determined. “I can do that.”

Xiong Li smiles, running past him. “Guess we ended up cultivating together after all, huh?”

Lan An’s widen with surprise—and he wants to ask Xiong Li what he means, but…

There’s work to be done.

The song of Clarity has a thirty meter radius—but it isn’t a complete solution.

It soothes the citizens of Gusu, keeps them standing in place, or slows them down—but it doesn’t completely strip them of Wen Jiao’s spell.

Doing that—that requires shattering the shackles entirely.

Which is possible.

Lan An couldn’t have done that a year ago, but…

He was tasked to train non-stop for an entire year. And when a god makes such a request, exiled or not, you obey.

Even if it hadn’t been a god—he would have done it anyway.

If he hadn’t, the alternative was allowing everyone in Gusu to die.

And that would include…

/TWANG!/

He strums another chord from his guqin, slamming into another wave of the living zombies as they try to make their approach again.

Yes, he can shatter a cursed iron shackle.

If he concentrates enough energy into the guqin, and aims it at one target—he can inflict enough damage to make the metal crack.

But it requires an extensive amount of spiritual power to inflict that on just one target. Which wouldn’t be a problem for Lan An—not normally.

Even for senior cultivators, the level of power he’s collected is extremely high. There likely isn’t a man alive currently that could compare.

Still, the population of Gusu is well over three hundred thousand.

Half of what it was before the occupation, but still.

He can’t shatter every single shackle in the crowd. Probably couldn’t even shatter a tenth.

It would take a god, to do something like that—multiple gods, just like Xie Lian said to the sect elders.

So really…Lan An can’t imagine how this plan is supposed to work.

Still, there’s no way out but further in—so he fights, finger moving furiously across the strings of his guqin as Xiong Li hurries up the stairwell leading to the top of the walls, his heart pounding.

His entire life, he’s grown up leashed, in a cage.

Just once—even if it’s only for a day, or even a minute—

Xiong Li wants to know what it’s like to walk outside of the city walls, and know that he’s free.

Lan An has to slowly move up the staircase behind him—using the narrowness of the pathway to pinch the onslaught in.

Only three men can ascend that way, shoulder to shoulder—and with the crowd reduced to that—

Lan An can target his spiritual power more narrowly, and as a result—he can start shattering shackles.

Each time someone wakes, the stop, disoriented, and they slow those behind them.

It’s not perfect—most of the freshly awoken citizens end up injured and trampled in the end, but it’s necessary.

He told Xiong Li he would keep the path clear, and so he will.

The teenager practically flies up the steps, boots thundering underneath him, lungs burning.

Finally, for the first time in his life, he reaches the top of the walls of Gusu.

For a moment—a brief one—he stops.

It’s—

“Oh, wow…” he mutters. His hair is pulled up into a high ponytail, over his head—blown sharply from the winds at this altitude.

It’s beautiful.

From here, you can see impossibly far, for miles and miles. The peaceful grasses of the central plains to the south, like an emerald sea, cast under the moons blood red glow, and to the north…

A mountain, framed by the clouds.

That—that must be where Lan An cultivates.

It looks…peaceful.

Maybe, when all of this is over, he should—

“Xiong Li!” Lan An’s voice barks from behind him, and the teen’s eyes narrow with determination.

Right.

It’s time to end this.

He pulls out his dagger again, slicing into his palm once more, reopening the wound.

Blood pours down his palm as he kneels down, pressing it to the marble surface of the wall, his eyes closed.

Part of him still thinks it won’t work. Xiong Li—he’s never been that special.

Lan An is the only one who has ever thought differently—which is kind of ironic.

Xiong Li is smart, yes. He’s strong. He’s talented.

But so are a lot of other people in the world.

Lan An, though? He’s a genius. A literal miracle. Everyone is going to remember him. It would make more sense for him to be some long lost descendent of royalty…not Xiong Li.

And yet, the world works in mysterious ways—the ones you least expect.

Because, as his blood streams over the marble…

The walls of Gusu begin to rumble.

All around them, the heat on the shackles around the necks of the citizens begins to fade, their eyes flickering.

Red light begins to billow up from the walls beneath them, the wind whipping around so violently, Xiong Li finds himself scrambling for purchase so he doesn’t get blown off of the wall, but—

An arm wraps firmly around his waist, holding him in place.

When he glances up—Lan An is right there. One hand holding his sword, plunged deep into the wall’s surface, the other holding Xiong Li tightly against him.

Overhead, a red cloud gathers and swirls, before exploding in a shower of sparks.

“Was…” Xiong Li has to turn his head and shout into Lan An’s hear to be heard over the wind and the thunder, “Was that it? Did it break?”

Lan An nods, glancing down at the citizens around them.

All of them seem to be coming back to their senses, however slowly.

For once—Xiong Li doesn’t say a word. Just smiles, leaning against Lan An’s side contently.

The taller young man seems a little startled at first, the tips of his ears going a little pink—but then, his lips turn up at the corners, and his arm tightens around Xiong Li’s waist.

He mumbles something under his breath, making his friend lift his chin, confused. “…What was that?”

“…” Lan An clears his throat, looking away. “I played a song for you, this time.”

Now it’s Xiong Li’s turn to look startled, his eyes going wide—but then, he laughs.

“…Yeah, I guess you did,” he admits, reaching up to poke Lan An in the cheek. “But don’t expect me to start singing for you or anything, alright?” He grins, leaning a little closer—even though Lan An is pointedly looking away, leaning away in response.

“I only sing for boys I like!”

Lan An makes a slightly annoyed, disbelieving sound under his breath, but he’s basically holding Xiong Li’s waist in a vice grip now, and the raven haired teen couldn’t be happier, poking his cheek again for emphasis.

Until he hears it.

A quiet, terrified gasp—then a scream.

A little boy, only just now coming back from the effects of the spell, stumbled backwards—and when he did, it sent him plummeting off of the side of the wall.

Xiong Li doesn’t hesitate. Not even for a split second.

He wrenches himself from Lan An’s arms, charging right after him, plunging off the edge without a second thought, even as his friend tries to stop him.

“XIONG LI—!”

But after a moment, Lan An stops.

Xiong Li catches the boy about halfway down, coming to a halt.

It takes Lan An a moment to understand, until he sees the sword underneath Xiong Li’s feet, gently carrying them both to the ground.

Once he lands on his feet with the child in his arms, Xiong Li beams up at him.

“DIDN’T I TELL YOU BEFORE?” He calls up from the ground.

“WE’RE BOTH CULTIVATORS NOW!”

After a moment, Lan An manages a relieved smile.

And if the battle had ended there—the course of history would have gone rather differently.

Back in the city center, Xie Lian dodges another swipe of Wen Jiao’s claws.

“It’s pointless, now!”

Xie Lian cries, “You saw it, the array is broken! You can’t gather any more spiritual power!”

Wen Jiao shakes his head, barking out a laugh, swiping his tail out, forcing the god to leap high into the air to avoid it.

“You really think I never planned on someone breaking it?!”

That gives Xie Lian pause his eyes narrowing, and the demon cackles now, shaking head.

“All of you gods are the same! Always looking down on people like me—thinking you’re so much better! So much stronger! Of course I had a plan for someone breaking it—in case I got caught!”

Xie Lian pauses, trying to think of what his plan could be—and that one split second of hesitation is costly.

It allows the demon to surge forward before he can dodge—and in an instant, the prince feels something seal around his throat with a click.

The pain is instantaneous.

It feels like having a spiked robe wrapped around your neck after it’s been set aflame—and it makes Xie Lian’s entire spirit quiver with agony.

The god gasps, dropping down onto his knees for a moment, eyes blown wide.

The cursed shackle pattern in his eyes brightens sharply.

And—

It flickers, the black and gold squares within the pattern moving and coiling like snakes within his irises, bloody tears welling up before slipping down his cheeks.

Wen Jiao smirks, “You thought you had me outnumbered with those two cultivators, didn’t you?”

The shackle around Xie Lian’s throat burns bright red, and even he can’t stop himself from crying out, barely catching himself before he hits the ground, breathing raggedly.

“Well, I’ve got back up of my own!”

Speak of the devil, and he will appear.

On the edge of Gusu, before the city gates, applause breaks out.

Slow, sarcastic—with only one person clapping.

Xiong Li glances up from where he’s helping the little boy in his arms sit down to rest, his eyes narrowing.

“Ah, how heroic!”

Heavy, expensive leather boots crunch against the gravel as the figure strides forward, clad in red and white.

“It’s to be expected from the last Prince of Gusu, is it not?”

Xiong Li sets the child aside, blade resting on the handle of his sword.

“I’m no prince,” he replies evenly. “Just a simple cultivator.”

The King of Daqing, son of the demon Jiao, Wen Sicong, smiles.

“In that case, you should kneel before your leader, shouldn’t you?”

“…Hmm,” Xiong Li tilts his head. “I don’t see any leader nearby.”

Wen Sicong glares.

“If you could point him out to me, I’ll get on my knees and pay my respects right now,” the teenager smirks, clearly seeing that he’s gotten a rise out of the pretender to the throne.

“You think I won’t make you pay for that?” He hisses.

/THUD!/

Dust swirls for a moment, and when it settles, there’s another cultivator standing by Xiong Li’s side.

Wearing simple blue robes, chestnut colored hair swirling, a simple white headband around his forehead.

And eyes that glint like steel in the moonlight, staring him down.

“You think you’ll be fighting one on one?” Lan An questions coldly.

Wen Sicong glances back and forth between the two young men.

He remembers the day they were born—this day, eighteen years before.

They were always watching Xiong Li closely—but Lan An—he was a surprise.

Now, they make quite a pair.

Light and dark. Silver and gold.

Slowly, Wen Sicong smiles.

Oh, how he’ll relish in seeing that bond severed.

“You think I’m the one that’s outnumbered?”

He raises his hands—and when he does…

Iron shackles begin to glow all around them.

He can’t control an entire city without the array, even his father couldn’t do that, but…

He can control enough.

The battle that breaks out is a thing of chaos.

With enemies coming from every single direction, leaving the two young men faced with an onslaught.

Lan An can slow them down in large groups, or target them one by one—and his method doesn’t cause physical harm to the puppets.

Unfortunately, Xiong Li isn’t left with the same options.

He has his blade, which he can knock people out with blunt side of, but other than that…

His options for dealing with them would end up killing them—and he doesn’t want to do that.

None of them chose this, and they don’t deserve to die for it.

So, he’s essentially left fighting with one hand tied behind his back—and Lan An is forced to carry the brunt of the battle

He does so without complaint, but…

No matter how many shackles he breaks, there are always more puppets for Wen Sicong to call on, and…Lan An’s spiritual power, while immense, won’t last forever.

Xiong Li can see that much—

And so can their opponent.

They’re strategic about it, with Lan An focusing on the puppets while Xiong Li attacks their master with his blade, but…

/CLANG!/

Their blades cross, and when they do, Wen Sicong smirks down at the boy, eyes glinting vindictively, “You can hear it, can’t you?”

Xiong Li glares, hooking his foot around Wen Sicong’s ankle, yanking him out of his stance, but the king is able to dodge beneath their blades before breaking apart again.

“The battle between my father and your god is over now!”

That…seems to be true.

Xiong Li can’t hear anything from the center of the city—all fighting seems to have stopped, but…

“…and he hasn’t come to help you, has he?!”

/CLANG!/

It’s true, he hasn’t. Which means…

The realization dawns on him, slow and horrifying, that—

It means Mr. Hua lost.

With their blades caught together again, Wen Sicong takes advantage of the opportunity to reach out, clutching Xiong Li’s chin between his fingers.

“Listen closely, little brat,” he growls, “because I’m about to tell you your entire future.”

Behind them, Lan An stiffens.

His first instinct is to protect his friend—but, if he does, they’ll be overrun by the puppets.

Xiong Li struggles, trying to pull his chin back, but Wen Sicong’s grip only tightens.

“I’m going to shackle you again,” the king explains. “Then, I’m going to kill Lan An.”

He watches with satisfaction as the boy’s eyes widen, color leaving his face. “I’m going to make you watch, and you’re going to know the entire time that it’s your fault,” he croons, his grip on Xiong Li tightening.

If he managed to shackle Xiong Li again, killing Lan An wouldn’t be particularly difficult. He would have them both hostage at that point, because…Xiong Li knows.

Lan An would never leave him. Not ever. Even if it meant giving himself up.

He’s stupid like that.

It’s—

Xiong Li fights back tears, refusing to allow this man to see his weakness.

It’s really annoying.

“But I’ll let you live, you know why?” Wen Sicong hisses.

Lan An seems to decide he’s had enough, starting to round back on them—but then, another swarm attacks with a fury.

“For the same reason we’ve allowed you to live, over and over again,” the king explains, watching with great satisfaction as the realization slowly starts to dawn over the teenager’s face. “Because we’re going to use your blood to rebuild the array.”

It makes sense, in a horrifically simple kind of way.

Xiong Li’s blood was strong enough to break it, therefore—it’s more than enough to reforge it under the same circumstances.

“Then, you’ll watch as we suck the rest of this city dry.”

He gains more leverage now, and it’s all Xiong Li can do to stop the their crossed blades from getting too close to his face, gritting his teeth.

“You’ll watch as every person you’ve ever known dies,” Wen Sicong hisses, just as Xiong Li stumbles backwards.

“But we still won’t kill you, you know why?”

“Xiong Li,” Lan An tries to warn, his tone tense. “Don’t listen to him.”

The worst part is—it’s not like Wen Sicong is lying. He isn’t. He really does plan on doing all of those things, he’s just—

He’s just taunting Xiong Li with it

Torturing him with it.

“Because after that, we’ll take you to Yunmeng,” Wen Sicong sneers, pressing forward until Xiong Li stumbles back again, pushing him closer and closer to the horde. “We’ll build another array, and we’ll start all over again.”

That’s when the real horror starts to sink in, and Wen Sicong relishes in the sight of it.

“Don’t worry, you’ll live long enough to have an heir—whether you want to or not,” the king laughs cruelly when the boy flinches.

“Oh, don’t be like that—fatherhood is one of the greatest joys in life! And your children, they’ll help the Wen sect spread it’s influence to every corner of this continent. You should be proud!”

“Xiong Li!” Lan An cries again, this time snarling with anger. “He’s a liar!”

But he isn’t. He means every word. And there’s a good chance it might come to fruition, because where things stand now?

They’re going to lose.

And if they do, Lan An will die. Everyone here will die, and—

Xiong Li knows why Lan An wants him to believe it’s a lie.

Because the truth is too horrible to live with.

That being, that the people of Gusu—the people of the continent—they’ll never be safe. Not while Xiong Li…

“…I won’t let you,” he mutters.

Suddenly, his feet stand firm, and Wen Sicong smiles.

“Oh, is that so?”

Xiong Li closes his eyes, his nostrils flaring as he pushes his golden core into overdrive, allowing it to crackle and swell in his chest, burning with a fury.

“I grew up in your cages,” the teenager mutters, shoving at Wen Sicong with so much force, it actually startles him.

Xiong Li was born a penniless orphan. He was raised on scraps. But right now, in this moment, he…

Certainly does look princely, in a way.

“You’ll never use my family’s blood to put people in chains,” Xiong Li snarls. “Not ever again!”

Then, he does something distinctly un-princely.

Before Wen Sicong can say another word, or try to stop him—the cultivator slams his knee into the older man’s crotch, making him shout with agony, stumbling back.

Xiong Li turns around, and—

He makes a break for the city gates.

He used to try that, when he was a kid. Run as close as he could get before his iron shackle would kick in. Lan An would grumble every time, telling Xiong Li how stupid he was, but…

He was there, every time.

And now, just as he darts past Lan An, dodging through the crowds as he moves, he mumbles—

“Thank you for everything.”

It’s a complete rarity, to get a statement like that from him, and once he hears it—

It dawns on Lan An.

In a slow, horrible realization.

“XIONG LI!”

For the first time in his life, Xiong Li leaves the city gates of Gusu, feels the grass underneath his feet.

It’s the first time in his life that he’s ever stood outside of this city, knowing that he was free.

It lasts for one moment.

One beautiful, peaceful moment.

But he has to cut it short, because his freedom—it would come at too high of a price.

The loss of everything he holds dear. Of other cities, who don’t deserve to suffer like this.

And when that moment passes, he lifts that dagger from his hip, turning it on himself once more.

Not in the hand, this time—no.

This time, he plunges to the weapon into his chest, while he friend screams with horror.

“XIONG LI!”

His knees hit the ground with a heavy thud.

He’s learned a lot in the last year.

Blood magic—it only works if the subject is living.

That very blood drips down his chin now, as he looks up at the stars.

The Xiong family spent a thousand years protecting the people. First of Xianle, then of Gusu.

This makes sense.

All Xiong Li’s life, he wanted to be free.

But for the people of his city, the people he loved so dearly to be free—

That means he has to go. And—

And maybe that’s fine.

At least he got to see outside the walls. At least he got to see him again. At least—

At least he—

Arms catch him before he hits the ground, holding him close.

Xiong Li manages a faint smile.

Lan An has never let him fall before. That makes sense.

Ever calm, ever steady, but…

Now, he’s trembling.

He rolls his friend over in his arms, one hand frantically trying to stop the bleeding, abandoning the battle behind them, his guqin cast aside on the ground.

His other hand forms a sign, burning with power as he starts to pour his spiritual energy into the wound, fighting—

Xiong Li pushes at his wrist weakly, shaking his head.

“Lan An,” he rasps, fingers trembling. “Stop.”

The cultivator shakes his head vehemently, tears dripping silently from his chin, his golden core burning in an inferno, pouring everything he has into trying to save him, to—

“It’s okay,” Xiong Li’s fingers wrap around his, pulling until the hand sign breaks, and the golden light fades.

Lan An looks down at him blearily, unable to see clearly through the tears, but…

Xiong Li is smiling up at him, and even the blurriest sight of that—

It shatters him, just like a shackle.

A choked sob wrenches from his chest as he clutches Xiong Li close.

“Why…” His shoulders tremble, fingertips digging into the raven haired boy’s shoulder blades, “Why didn’t you come with me?!”

He tried so hard.

Everything he did, it was all for…always for…

Always for him.

Lan An can’t remember a moment of his life, when Xiong Li’s smile wasn’t at the center of it.

“I already said,” Xiong Li murmurs, “remember?”

That he would rather die, trying—

Trying to help people.

Xiong Li has never seen Lan An cry before.

But like everything else, he does it well.

Even his tears are beautiful, falling down his cheeks like diamonds, something precious.

And maybe they are, because they’re all for him.

“Hey, hey…” He mumbles, squeezing his hand.

“…Aren’t you…gonna tell me happy birthday?”

Lan An shudders, pressing their foreheads together.

The funny thing is—Xiong Li was the taller one, when they were younger. Up until they were teenagers, and Lan An hit his growth spurt.

Now, he feels so small in Lan An’s arms.

Like, if the cultivator hugs his friend too tightly—he might just disappear into stardust.

And still, Lan An can’t stop himself from holding him as tightly as he can. Like that could somehow stop him from leaving.

He’s wracked with another sob, but he forces out the words.

“H…Happy birthday, Xiong Li.”

His breaths are a little hitched now, growing weaker.

“I…I’m giving you something this year, okay?” He mumbles. “D-Don’t bother with the book this time, I…I’m not gonna get around to reading it, anyway.”

That isn’t funny.

Lan An clings harder.

Xiong Li is always making scenes and telling stupid jokes, and they’re never that funny.

It’s—

Lan An rocks, his tears falling onto Xiong Li’s cheeks as he weeps silently.

It’s annoying.

It’s so annoying, he—

Suddenly, the cultivator freezes.

“As t-time draws near, my dearest dear…when you and I…must part…”

His voice is weaker than usual, breaking and catching on the lyrics, but—

Still, it’s perfect.

“H-How little you know…of the grief and woe…in my poor a-aching heart…”

Lan An struggles to breathe, to see through the tears—but he listens as closely as he can.

He hasn’t been given many gifts in his life. All of them have come from Xiong Li. And this—

This is the sweetest one his friend has ever given him.

“E-Each night I suffer for y-your sake, you’re the boy I love so dear…”

Xiong Li is singing for him.

Not very loudly, but he doesn’t have to—not when their foreheads are still pressed together, breathing close.

“I-I wish that I was going with you, or you were staying here.”

He trails off, breathing raggedly.

“T…The second verse is too embarrassing, so…that’s all you g…get…”

Lan An strokes his hair, leaning back to look at his face.

To look down into those eyes, the only stars he ever wanted to see.

“You kept writing songs,” Lan An murmurs, pushing Xiong Li’s bangs from his forehead so tenderly, tucking them behind his ear—and his friend nods.

“I-I told you…”

Lan An’s thumb wipes the blood from his lips, and he whispers—

“I thought you only sang for the boys you liked.”

Xiong Li smiles up at him, his eyes shining.

And in that one moment, the entire universe is there, tucked inside Lan An’s arms.

“That’s right,” he whispers.

They stare at one another, on the brink of so many words, so many things to say.

And at the same time, just one.

But by the time Lan An musters the nerve to open his mouth, he…Xiong Li…

His eyes have slipped shut.

There isn’t any singing anymore.

No smiling. No dramatic scenes. No stupid jokes.

Lan An presses their foreheads together one more time.

Behind him, he can hear shouting.

Angry, frustrated shouting.

Because the last living descendent of the Xiong family is d—d—

Because Wen Jiao’s sick plan has been thwarted.

“…”

Carefully, with a heartbreaking level of gentleness, Lan An lays his friend down in the grass, rising to his feet.

“Didn’t you say you were going to kill me?”

Wen Sicong pauses in the middle of his angry screaming, in the middle of beating one of his puppets to death out of frustration.

The cultivator stands in the gates once more, expressionless.

His voice is like a cold wind.

“…Is that your way of asking?” The king sneers, his knuckles stained with blood as he allows the young woman to drop the the ground, limp. “Eager to join your little friend?”

Lan An stares him down for a moment—with a stare so piercing, so heavy—

Even Wen Sicong shrinks.

“No,” he murmurs, “it ends here.”

At first, the king doesn’t know what the cultivator means.

In truth, no one could have predicted what the young man was about to do—not until it happened.

See, there are consequences to having people pray under false pretense.

After all—even as they were being fed off of, for an entire century, the people of Gusu prayed in the temple of ‘Wen Jiao,’ not knowing that they were kneeling before a false idol.

Those merits, those prayers—they didn’t go to the demon.

But, cut off from the heavens—the prayers in the city of Gusu couldn’t be sent to General Ming Guang either.

Thus, they were left trapped—a century’s worth of prayers, the hopes and dreams of tens of thousands of people, all trapped in the soil beneath Gusu.

The land was already ancient, pulsing with power—and now, it’s almost seismic. Overflowing.

Lan An didn’t notice it before, the buzzing.

But now—now that the entire world has gone suddenly quiet, without song, he can hear it there.

He kneels, pressing his palm to the earth.

When he looks into the distance, he sees a flash of light, and his will turns to steel.

It will end here.

It—It won’t be for nothing.

Wen Sicong takes a stumbling step backwards, “What…are you…?”

He stops, when Lan An’s eyes begin to burn a brilliant shade of white.

Like Xiong Li, Lan An was born into chains.

He thought, for the longest time, that he only had one path by which he could follow in order to shatter them.

He lived his youth away from the boy he loved, in a monastery—because he thought that was the best way to free him.

That was the only path he thought there was, and—

And Lan An wasted so much time.

Now, for the first time in millennia, a new form of cultivation is born.

It began with the song of Clarity, but now, it becomes something fully formed.

The teenager rises to his feet once more.

His body pulses with so much spiritual power, it feels like it might rip apart down to the cellular level, but—

That’s alright.

Lan An lifts his guqin.

He doesn’t plan on holding it for long.

The first chord he plays rings so loudly, every window in Gusu shatters.

It’s a song that will be passed down for a hundred generations, played on the fields of battle for millennia to come.

A song that will haunt the nightmares of demons and mortal foes alike;

The Song of Vanquish.

With the second chord, every iron shackle in Gusu breaks in two.

Wen Sicong watches, his head whipping around as the wind blows through the city with a fury, the people stumbling and clutching their necks—

None of them familiar with the nakedness that comes without the weight of iron on their throats.

“Are you INSANE?!” The king shouts.

“OR ARE YOU JUST TRYING TO KILL YOURSELF—?”

On the third and final chord, the earth rattles and shakes so violently, only one man is left standing.

So forcefully that, after countless centuries looming over the landscape, acting both as a shield and a cage…

The Great Walls of Gusu come crashing down.

Not immediately. First there are cracks, then rattles, and suddenly, all at once—

This impossibly loud, impossibly vast crash, the air becoming a sea of dust and smoke.

Lan An’s fingers bleed against the Guqin strings.

The magnitude of the act doesn’t dawn on him. Not in that moment. Not even as the people of Gusu stop, coughing and peering at him through the fog, like he’s some sort of unearthly being.

No.

All Lan An thinks of in that moment, is getting to the other side of the rubble.

Back to where—

Back to where he left his friend.

He’s slightly numb, covered in soot, headband askew as he picks his way through the carnage, dropping down lightly on the other side, casting his guqin aside without a thought, but…

Xiong Li isn’t there.

Not where Lan An left him.

The cultivator freezes, his eyes widening with confusion, hurt, and worry.

How—? How could it have—?

/BOOM!/

For a moment, there’s absolutely nothing.

Just golden light and this impossible warmth, filling him from head to toe, and a rush of wind.

Gusu is an ancient city. One of powerful magic and old blood.

Famed as the place where lightning struck twice. Where two gods ascended across the centuries.

When the sun rises, it will become known as the city where three gods ascended—all in one night.

When Lan An opens his eyes, he isn’t standing among the rubble, looking over the grasses of the central plains.

He’s standing in front of a city of golden palaces and jewel lined streets.

A city where no one wants for anything—

And no one is born into chains.

But he doesn’t look at the palaces. Or the fountains of gold. Or even the Grand Martial Palace.

All Lan An looks at now, is the only thing that he’s ever had eyes for.

A young man with hair as dark as ink, and eyes like stars.

The world has taken so many things from him.

Without a word spoken, they rush into each other’s arms.

Now, for the first time—it gives something back.

Lan An clutches onto him tightly, and—ascension or not, dead or alive—

Here, in the space between his arms, is heaven.

Wen Jiao watches now, as the walls of Gusu come crashing back down. As, one after another, the shackles of the people slip from their necks.

Watches the flash of golden light as a new god ascends to the heavens—

But not him.

Before him kneels a fallen god, hands clutching at his throat.

Of course, with his luck—his shackle would be the only one in Gusu that doesn’t break.

“…You took everything from me…” The demon whispers, his eyes flaring. “I’ll…I’LL KILL YOU FOR THIS!”

Xie Lian tilts his head, taking shaky breaths. “Is it possible to steal from a thief?”

Wen Jiao’s form trembles.

“Have you ever, once in your life, earned something honestly?”

/CRASH!/

The demon’s tail slams in to Xie Lian while he’s too weakened to move, sending him flying.

He slams into the side of the grand temple, the walls shuddering and groaning, paint facades that were placed years before cracking—

Revealing the name, ‘Ming Guang,’ underneath.

“You think I need to ascend to kill you?!” Wen Jiao snarls, slithering toward him.

“I don’t need old man Jun Wu to make me a god. That mountain is opening soon—”

Mountain?

“And when it does, I’ll become more powerful than you can POSSIBLY imagine! I’ll seal you here, and when it’s finished, my brothers and I will come to SLAUGHTER you, AND GUSU!”

Brothers?

Wen Jiao stands above the rubble on the side of the temple, ready to deal another blow, when—

A hand shoots out.

Smaller, elegant—almost delicate.

“No,” the god replies, his voice suddenly steady. “You won’t.”

He’s gripping Wen Jiao by his hair, fingers knotted tight.

Xie Lian lifts his face out of the rubble, dust and gravel falling from his hair.

Part of losing your wealth, power, and status, is learning what you’re good at naturally.

Xie Lian is clever. He’s strong. He’s determined.

But one of his strengths rises above the rest.

There is no pain that he can’t learn to live with. Nothing that he can’t endure. Even when he thought it was impossible, that his mind or his body would break down, he carries on.

And now, as his free hand wraps around the cursed shackle around his throat, he realizes:

It’s not dark anymore.

Not completely.

He can’t see Wen Jiao’s face, the city streets around them—or even his own hand in front of his face.

But he can see clouds of light and dark, in varying shapes and colors.

And before him is a dark, hateful abyss—

Shaped like a serpent.

The cursed shackles on Xie Lian’s body are ancient and powerful, yes—but they’re also of heavenly make.

The cursed iron around Xie Lian’s throat now is so vile, so filled with toxic death energy, that…

It must have damaged the shackle in Xie Lian’s eyes.

That’s probably why his eyes have been hurting with increasing frequency in the last year. The curse of Gusu has been breaking the shackle down. Not shattering it—that would take more power than Xie Lian can currently conceive of—

But there’s a crack.

Just enough to allow a little bit of light through.

Enough to allow the god to see one thing, after eight centuries in the dark:

Spiritual Power.

“…Why are you smiling?!” Wen Jiao glares, thrashing in Xie Lian’s hold, baring his fangs, snarling.

“DON’T YOU REALIZE WHAT SITUATION YOU’RE IN?!”

But his expression falters when he watches Xie Lian’s fingers tighten around the cursed iron, twisting, until—

Until it crumbles.

A year ago, that caused him so much pain—he couldn’t move.

But Xie Lian can bear with it, now.

He balls his good hand up into a fist, cocking it back.

I’m going to hit you,” the god explains calmly. “As hard as I can.”

Wen Jiao’s brow knits together, not understanding what a threat that truly is. After all, he’s received quite a few blows from the god in the last hour—

/BOOM!/

The impact that Xie Lian’s fist makes when it crashes into the demon’s chest—for the first time now, with accuracy—

It sounds like thunder.

Wen Jiao is sent flying back, hundreds of feet—until he crashes into a structure.

A hundred foot tall divine statue.

One that he covered with an exterior shell, a century ago—to make it shine with his own likeness.

Now, that glamor shatters, and there are no masks left to cover what he truly is.

The Grand Temple stands free of guise now, it’s name bright and clear across the entrance.

The statue behind him is not that of a red robed cultivator, but of a general, a broken sword in his hands.

And all around Gusu, the citizens rise to their feet, watching him with hateful eyes, realizing.

That the god they have prayed to for over a century has been a fraud.

That he is a liar, and a monster, and his words are hollow.

Now, a century later, Wen Jiao is back where he started.

Looked down on, detested—by the people of the great city of Gusu.

Not walled anymore, he supposes—it seems that insane little brat did away with that.

From the ground, Xie Lian kneels down next to a fallen soldier, and for the first time in nearly two centuries—

He rises with a blade in his hand.

“Ruoye,” he murmurs, his shackle scorching as he takes in Wen Jiao’s shape, tracking it’s movements.

The bandage rushes to his side, nuzzling against his chin.

For the first time in eight centuries, Xie Lian isn’t fighting blind. Not completely.

And now, he gives the spiritual tool a new order—one that he’s never uttered, until now:

“Kill.”

The spiritual tool goes still.

Most of the time, Ruoye has a gentle, relatively non-threatening aura. Much like it’s master.

But there are moments—brief, terrifying moments—when it’s true origins peak through.

Like it does now, shooting through the air, forming a noose as he wraps around Wen Jiao’s neck.

Almost like a cruel imitation of the shackles he forced the people of Gusu to live with for generations.

The demon howls, forced down onto the ground, eyes bulging as he claws at the spiritual tool, but—

Suddenly, his hands can’t move at all.

Or—no, it isn’t that.

It’s that he doesn’t have hands.

He has bloody stumps.

A boot presses down against his chest, forcing him back down as the noose around his neck tightens—and cursed shackles burn down upon him.

“You…” The demon stammers. “You…!”

For the first time, Wen Jiao sounds afraid.

“You really don’t know what to do in a fair fight,” Xie Lian muses, the demon’s blood dripping from the tip of his blade, “Do you?”

“…It…doesn’t matter!” He snarls, thrashing under Xie Lian’s boot, trying to throw him off, but Ruoye keeps him in place. “I-I WON’T DIE!”

His tail whips around, knocking an entire building down to rubble. “NO MORTAL CAN KILL ME—!”

He’s cut off with a bloody gurgle as the sword pierces his throat, helpless to do anything else but stare up into haunting, burning shackle.

“I told you before,” Xie Lian murmurs.

The blade twists slightly, and Wen Jiao’s eyes widen.

“There are no mortals here.”

With one last swipe of the sword, not even a magical one, just a normal, slightly dull piece of steel—

Xie Lian takes the demon Wen Jiao’s head, sending it tumbling down the street.

The god plunges the blade into Wen Jiao’s body, right through his heart, for good measure.

A great shriek rises through the streets of Gusu, dark energy swirling like toxic clouds in the air, swirling higher and higher, like a maelstrom, until…

They disperse.

Xie Lian takes a step back from the demon’s crumbling, fading body, catching his hand on a nearby structure—

And he smiles at the irony.

He can see spiritual and cursed energy now, yes. But he didn’t realize…

They were fighting on a bridge, this entire time.

Life is cyclical sometimes, in the ways that you never expect.

Xie Lian presses one bloodstained palm against his face as the people of Gusu begin to roar and cheer, their screams of joy and gratitude filling the sky.

And he whispers—

“Body in the abyss, heart in paradise.”

The earth almost seems to rumble in response, and he can’t stop himself from smiling.

How long has it been, since he said those words, not understanding the weight of them?

How far removed is the arrogant child he was then, from the broken man he is now?

For the first time in a century, the stars shine clearly on the city of Gusu, the moon turns clear.

After all—eclipses, no matter how powerful they might seem, always pass.

A little boy sits by the city gates, and while the rest of the city is cheering—

Liao Yong weeps.

Because he might be free, but…His friends are—

“Hey, hey…” A voice calls over, walking through the smoke. “You’re really gonna be the only one crying at a celebration?”

Liao Yong’s eyes widen, tear stricken.

“Girls don’t like that, y’know. You won’t be popular…”

His head whips around, voice trembling.

“X-Xiong Li?!”

The young man steps into the market square, hands clasped behind his back.

He wears clean, dark robes now—not a speck of blood on them.

And the sight of him makes all the children in the square cry out with joy.

“Gege!” They scream, running to him—but Liao Yong makes it there first, leaping into the young cultivator’s arms, clinging to his neck. “Gege! We thought you were gone!”

“Nah…” Xiong Li grins, holding Liao Yong close while the other kids cling to his legs.

“Who wants to be a stuffy old god, anyways?” He huffs, pressing his cheek against Liao Yong’s. “Not my style.”

After all—in watching Xie Lian in the last year—Xiong Li learned one thing about beign a god:

You’re forced to watch people suffer more often than you can help them.

And Xiong Li—even if it means giving up something like Immortality—

That’s okay.

He’d rather die, trying to help people, than live a thousand years up in the heavens.

That would feel like running away.

Besides—he grew up without a family. Without a past.

But this city, Gusu—it’s his heritage.

His ancestors guarded the gates for a thousand years.

And these people—

Xiong Li wants to protect them, as best as he can—for as long as he can.

Liao Yong hugs him tight, still recovering fro his tears.

“What about An-Xiong?!”

Xiong Li’s smile dims slightly as he glances up at the stars, but it doesn’t fade completely.

“…He’s gonna make an amazing god,” the cultivator mutters, shaking his head.

That was his dream, to ascend. It would be a waste, for Lan An to live a mortal life.

He’s always been so special, and Xiong Li—he’s never once, not in all his life, wanted to hold him back.

He just—

Sometimes, he wishes that they could go together, that’s all.

“But we can pray to him every day, okay?”

Xiong Li for his part, plans on getting on his knees and saying the most embarrassing things he can think of.

“Even if he doesn’t answer, that’ll be just like normal, right?”

That draws a reluctant, tearful laugh from Liao Yong.

Xie Lian returns to the square, quietly acknowledging the tears and gratitude of the city dwellers.

And, near the front gates of Gusu, he sees a small, bright pocket of Spiritual Power—that of Xiong Li.

But no other cultivator in sight.

He isn’t surprised that the two of them would ascend.

Lan An is the most powerful cultivator of his generation—likely of the last five hundred years. And Xiong Li is greatly talented himself, but also…

His heart is a rare, special thing—that of a hero, and it’s aura is strong.

He is surprised, however by the fact that’s Xiong Li willingly cast himself back down—and deeply impressed.

He’s never encountered someone selfless enough to do something like that before. Or to see the shortcomings of godhood so quickly and so clearly.

Part of Xie Lian can’t help but wonder how different his life might have been, if he had done that. If he still would have met…

/BOOM!/

There’s another flash over Gusu, and a resounding crash as…

Xie Lian watches a light fall down from the sky, crashing back to earth.

So many times in his life, he’s seen tragedy. To the point where he’s learned to expect sad endings for the mortals he’s come across.

His own story has so often been like a twisted fairy tale, filled with lessons he never wanted to learn.

Xiong Li turns his head, trembling.

Standing among the rubble, robes swirling around him, is a familiar face—one with eyes that have always felt like home.

The people of Gusu watch, stunned, and one of the children starts to speak, “An—?

Xiong Li drops Liao Yong to the ground, heart pounding, and he runs.

As fast as his legs will take him, and it almost feels like flying, as he leaps into his arms.

And, like always, his friend catches him—pulling him close.

“LAN AN!” He cries.

No longer the boy lingering behind in the square, seated in a windowsill, pretending not to care.

They meet underneath the gates of Gusu, just as they have so many times before—this time, holding each other close, tears stinging at the corners of Xiong Li’s eyes.

“You…” He whispers, looking up into the cultivator’s eyes, “You came back.”

Lan An’s arms hold him tight, and his gaze is so warm, so heavy, it’s—It’s suffocating.

A set of tears roll down Xiong Li’s cheeks.

It’s annoying. It’s really, really so annoying.

“But…” He blinks the rest of his tears back, clearing his throat. “What about…”

“About what?”

“Your…you…” Xiong Li sputters, trying to understand. “Your cultivation? You worked…so hard—how could you just give that all up?” He glances at the headband on Lan An’s forehead, “Your masters are going to—”

Lan An reaches up, pulling the white ribbon off without a word.

Xiong Li watches, his jaw slack as Lan An…

He places the headband in Xiong Li’s palm, folding his fingers around it.

“I don’t care how long I live,” he explains softly.

Xiong Li’s eyes snap up to his, stricken.

Lan An has rarely been one for smiling—but he smiles at him now, so softly, like a man who already has everything in the world.

“As long as I live with you.”

Xiong Li makes a small choking sound, his fingers clutching the headband a little tighter, tears pouring down.

Xie Lian has seen so many stories in his life, none of them with happy endings. But now, for the first time…

Lan An’s brow creases slightly when he sees how hard Xiong Li is crying, “Did I say something—?”

He’s cut off when the raven haired teenager lunges up on his toes.

Kissing him with everyone he has, for the entire town square to see, arms flung around Lan An’s neck.

The taller youth barely has a chance to breathe, and when he does, Xiong Li is blubbering, fingers in his hair.

“I love you,” he mumbles, making Lan An’s eyes widen sharply.

“I love you so much!”

For the first time in Xie Lian’s long, often painful life, he witnesses a love story.

Lan An doesn’t say it back, not exactly—but he doesn’t need to, not when he groans under his breath, letting out the word—

“Finally.”

Xiong Li’s brow furrows.

“Hey!” He whines, “Don’t complain, I’m the one that kissed you first—!”

But before he can say another word, he’s being kissed. Kissed so fiercely, his eyes slip shut, and his toes curl inside his shoots as he melts into it, hugging Lan An close.

Liao Yong gags.

“Get a room!”

Lan An pulls back, giving the child an annoyed glare, but Xiong Li just laughs, hugging him tight, his face pressed into Lan An’s neck. Radiating a happiness so sincere, Xie Lan almost feels the warmth of it.

Gusu is an ancient place, one of powerful magic and old blood.

A place of curses, perseverance, and miracles.

And now, not a single citizen within the city gates wears chains.

Well—just one.

Wen Sicong, who is sentenced to banishment, along with his young son, Wen Mao.

For the first time in a century, the Grand Palace of Ming Guang stands tall, it’s doors open to believers once more.

And the hope Xie Lian feels in the air when the people of Gusu rush forward to offer their prayers…

It almost brings tears to his eyes.

On the steps of the temple—the ones that aren’t demolished—sits a young cultivator, wearing simple blue robes, his hair flowing loose in the breeze.

And in his lap, arms hugging his neck, silk headband knotted between his fingers, is the Prince of Gusu, smiling up at him.

“Hey, Lan An…” He leans forward, their noses bumping together, “I’ve been thinking.”

“Oh, joy.”

He gets a swat on the head for that one.

“Wanna be cultivation partners?”

Lan An’s eyes widen, then soften as Xiong Li smirks at him.

“Or are you still waiting for your fated—?”

He’s silenced with another kiss. His mouth is almost sore, from how much he’s kissed the teenager in one night.

Xiong Li’s had his first, second, third, add a few dozen more kisses—in just a few hours.

“Yes, I would.”

Xiong Li smiles against him. “I’ve got some ideas.”

“Like?”

“Well…We’re probably gonna be pretty busy in the city during the day, so,” he leans back, “why don’t we cultivate at night? That’s when the demons come out anyway.”

Honestly—it’s not a terrible idea.

“Oh—We could even call them night hunts!”

“Alright,” Lan An agrees—finding the name a little silly, but…

It seems to make Xiong Li happy.

“You both did well out there.” The teenagers glance up, only to see a white robed cultivator standing a few steps below them.

One they both recognize, now, as a God.

“…Well, we definitely would’ve died if you weren’t handling the giant terrifying demon the entire time,” Xiong Li shrugs, “So, thank you.”

Xie Lian opens his mouth to say he’s dealt with worse, but…opts not to, because that probably isn’t the best thing to say.

“And I wouldn’t have been able to free all of these people.” Xie Lian shrugs, looking back and forth between the two young men. “Both of you did that.”

It’s interesting.

He’s starting to get a grip on it, seeing spiritual energy, but…

Lan An’s and Xiong Li’s looks the same.

So much so, that with them sitting together like this—they look like one person instead of two.

“…What are the two of you going to do now?” He murmurs.

They look at each other, and Xiong Li smiles.

“Rebuild the city. Maybe teach some disciples here and there.”

He pushes some of Lan An’s hair behind his ears, grinning when he sees how red they are. “We’ll figure out the rest as we go.”

Xie Lian nods, and…he can’t walk away in good conscience without pointing it out, so..

“If you stay like this, without worshippers…you’ll fade away.”

They’ll likely live longer than most mortals, having ascended, but…eventually, they’ll pass on.

The cultivators look at one another—neither one seeming bothered by the aspect.

And then Xiong Li says something—words that will stick with Xie Lian for centuries to come.

“It’s not about how long your life is,” Xiong Li murmurs, never looking away from Lan An’s face. “It’s about how you live it.”

Xie Lian pauses a little startled by the sentiment, and…Moved.

He bows his head, clasping his hands in front of him.

“I wish you both the best.”

He turns to leave, and Xiong Li frowns, raising an eyebrow. “…You’re leaving already? You can stay, we—”

He stops when the god looks back at him with a gentle smile.

“I finished what I came here to do—and it’s best if I don’t stay in one place for too long.”

Xiong Li nods, watching him go, sitting contentedly in Lan An’s arms, and resolving to himself…

That he’s going to say a prayer, to the Flower Crowned Martial God.

Everyone says he’s a god of misfortune, but the teenager knows the truth.

That the Blind Weaver of Gusu is a god of human kindness.

Of justice.

And suffering, yes—but part of suffering is overcoming it.

The sun begins to rise over Gusu, and for the first time in a century, it looks down upon a free city.

Lan An’s lips press against his hair.

Xiong Li relaxes against him, closing his eyes, not knowing what path they’ll take from here. But he knows that it will be theirs.

And there is no one else he would rather walk beside.

Xie Lian steps back out onto the central plains, the wind in his hair. Sunlight on his face.

He’s tired, but…

He reaches into the front of his robes, tugging on a silver chain—lifting the ashes to his lips.

“Good morning, Hong-er,” he whispers.

He’s said this two hundred and fifty five thousand, six hundred and fifty two times.

“Today is going to be a good day.”

He’s said that all those times, not always believing it, but always repeating the words anyway.

And now…

In the space of one moment, the entire sky flashes with light.

/CRASH!/

Gusu is a city of magic, miracles, and tragedy. Known for so many different tales, but now…

Now, it will be known for one tale of all others.

That on the night that the Great Walls of Gusu came crashing down, three gods were born again.

No longer the Great Walled City of the North—but the City of Three Ascensions.

When Xie Lian lands…it’s quiet.

Warm, even.

Only the gentlest breeze. And the road beneath his feet—it feels like marble, inlaid with gold.

For a moment, there’s only disbelief, his eyes wide, staring at the golden, blinding light all around him. Formless, but…

He knows where he is.

“Wait,” a voice calls out.

“Is that him AGAIN?!”

Oh.

Xie Lian cracks a sheepish smile, rubbing the back of his head with an awkward laugh as the officials in the streets of the Heavenly Capital groan.

Oh boy.

“Um…Hello everyone!”

Yin Yu isn’t the type to move quickly. See—

His boss is sort of like a cat. Or, well—a jaguar that lives in a house, so everyone just pretends he’s a house cat, when in reality, he’s a terrifying creature that could rip you limb from limb on a whim.

The point is…

If you run too fast, he’s going to think you’re running from him, and he’s going to chase you down and play with you like you’re a small rodent.

It’s just—

Best not to show any sign of distress or weakness. Not in Paradise Manor.

But today? Yin Yu is sprinting down the hall.

So fast, he nearly skids into a higher ranking ghost when he rounds the corner, only to get set on his feet by a firm grip on his shoulders.

“Where you going in such a hurry, grunt?”

“…” The Ghost Officer sends Shuo an annoyed look. “Is he in his office?”

“Did you fuck up?”

“No?” Yin Yu glares, his white mask hanging off of the side of his head, slightly askew in his distress. “Actually, today is a pretty big deal for me—”

Shuo bumps his shoulder against Yin Yu’s as he walks past.

“If it doesn’t involve you getting your ass kicked, it’s boring.”

“…” The former official glares after him, unmoved by the slightly flirtatious wink that the Savage Ghost throws back at him.

Normally, he puts up with Shuo’s constant teasing, but today?

Today is the biggest day in Yin Yu’s career.

Well. His post-heavenly career, anyway.

When he bursts in through the doors of the Ghost King’s office, the first words he hears are—

“Have you suffered a head injury?”

Yin Yu stops in the doorway, a little awkward. “…No, sir.”

Hua Cheng is facing away from him, leaning against his desk.

There’s some scribblings on the blackboard propped against the wall. Illegible, but something that he and Blackwater were fussing over, the last time the water demon was in Ghost City.

The one benefit of having Crimson Rain’s handwriting? No need to classify your notes.

“I’m trying to find out if there’s some reason that you’ve forgotten how to knock.”

Yin Yu stops, clearing his throat. “Apologies sir, but I have an urgent update.”

“That being?”

“Well,” he takes a deep breath, “first, I’d like to remind you that the holidays are coming.”

Hua Cheng turns his head to look back at him over his shoulder, raising one slender eyebrow.

“And?”

Yin Yu swallows dryly. “And…you said we could discuss my pay after the mid-autumn festival, which isn’t that far away.”

“But it isn’t today.”

“No,” the Ghost Officer agrees. “I just—hope you’ll keep this in mind, when we discuss it.”

“Keep what in mind?”

Yin Yu takes a deep breath, setting a scroll down on Hua Cheng’s desk:

“I found the Crown Prince of Xianle.”

In the hundred and fifty years that he’s been working for Hua Cheng, Yin Yu has never seen his focus sharpen with such swiftness or such intensity.

“Are you sure?”

He’s cautious about getting his hope up after so many missed calls, but Yin Yu nods vehemently.

“I know where he was as of—” He glances at the hourglass on Hua Cheng’s desk, “Four hours ago. Even if he left, assuming he’s traveling on foot, the search radius would only be three hundred miles.”

It’s closer than they’ve ever gotten.

“How?”

“Well…”

It’s been an operation eighty five years in the making. But that’s fine—Yin Yu thrives on small details. Working in the trenches is his specialty.

He opens the scroll he carried in with him, unrolling it across Hua Cheng’s desk.

Inside, four different swatches of fabric are pinned against the paper. “See—each of these are attempted knock offs of one pattern.”

Hua Cheng examines them closely.

Each one has an interlocking gold chain pattern, overlaid with pink lotus blossoms.

“But look at this one?” Yin Yu rolls the scroll open a little further, and Hua Cheng takes in the fifth swatch.

All of the options were lovely, but this one—it’s much more detailed, to the point where it almost looks like the flowers in the pattern are living.

“Human hands can’t achieve that level of detail,” Yin Yu explains, “I’ve had four different masters try, and they can’t. This pattern—it’s used in Bridal Brocades for royalty all over, but it’s impossibly rare.”

“And the prince made it?”

Yin Yu nods quickly.

“So I stopped tracking him, and I started tracking the silk.”

It’s clever, Hua Cheng won’t lie. After all—the silk itself isn’t impacted by Xie Lian’s luck once it leaves his possession.

“The last known sale was in a village in the North, a little over a century ago.”

“That’s not particularly helpful.”

“No, but then, there was word that someone was making perfect replicas—in Gusu.”

The mention of that makes Hua Cheng stiffen.

He and He Xuan have both been monitoring the situation with Wen Jiao for the last sixty years, debating.

Mount Tonglu has been overdue, and the thought that he might be a potential candidate is somewhat concerning.

Zhao Beitong would never accept him, that isn’t the concern. It’s more that he might get in the way of other candidates Hua Cheng or He Xuan might have in mind.

The ghost realm might be independent and disorganized compared to the heavens—but it isn’t free from politics.

And Wen Jiao is especially distasteful in Hua Cheng’s eyes.

“And just last night, during the Lunar Eclipse—the walls of Gusu came down. It’s highly unlikely that it was a coincidence—and once of the scouts said they saw a blind Taoist fighting Wen Jiao in the city center.”

Hua Cheng already has E-Ming at his belt. “Is he in danger?”

“No, Wen Jiao is dead—but it’s a confirmed sighting of him, and it was only a few hours ago, so the odds are…”

Yin Yu trails off, finally feeling satisfaction in the knowledge that, after eighty long, hard years of investigation, his hard work has finally come to fruition.

Finally, he’ll get a raise. Maybe some respect around here. His long term goal is for Hua Cheng to put him over Shuo, just so Yin Yu can see the look on that smug bastard’s face when—

While Yin Yu is lost in thought, a voice pipes up in Hua Cheng’s head.

‘You know, instead of making your password that fucking unpleasant, you could just only give it out to people you actually want to talk to.’

The Ghost King rolls his eyes.

‘Too late, I already gave it to you.’

‘Charming.’

‘Fuck off, I’m busy—’

‘He’s here.’

Hua Cheng holds up a hand, making Yin Yu fall silent as he turns around, pressing his fingertips to his temples.

‘He’s what?’

‘The Crown Prince of Xianle,’

Hua Cheng’s eyes widen sharply.

‘He’s ascended again. Keep the array open, and I’ll tell you where he goes next.’

Unfortunately for Yin Yu, he was four hours too late for his tip to be useful. And therefore—

Eighty years of hard work were essentially wasted, in one fell swoop.

He’ll have to find another way to get that raise, and Hua Cheng…

Well, he’s already disappeared.

The Grand Martial Hall is a common meeting place in the upper court of the heavens, but the Heavenly Imperial Residence?

It’s a rather exclusive location, one that few ever have the honor of visiting in purpose, and even fewer are allowed to frequent regularly.

The Water Master doesn’t seem particularly honored, draped across the back of a chaise lounge, rolling over when the Heavenly Emperor’s gaze drifts in his direction.

Jun Wu sets down his report with a raised eyebrow. “Have I offended you?”

“I should be asking you that.”

Shi Wudu is proud. Like a pet that knows it’s expensive, from a good breeder. He won’t actually say what’s bothering him, he’ll just suffer in silence.

Loud silence.

But Jun Wu has some idea of what the issue is.

“You never told me to stop.”

It isn’t fair.

Jun Wu is the one that’s in a mood, not him. He was fine, when the Emperor summoned him this morning. Now, he aches. And he feels…

Shi Wudu doesn’t want to examine what he’s feeling, so he labels it as annoyance, and nothing more.

Annoyance isn’t painful.

“You never asked me if I was alright.”

That statement is a little more pointed than what he might usually make in protest—but when Jun Wu tries to examine the young god’s expression, Shi Wudu snaps his fan open in front of his face, obscuring himself from view.

“Forget it.”

Before the Emperor can ask more, the doors to the residence open.

Only one person can enter without being summoned, you see—and that would be the head Civil God, Ling Wen.

Her shoes click softly against the tile, scrolls clutched in her arms.

“Your majesty,” she murmurs.

She politely keeps her gaze straight ahead, sparing her friend some dignity as he rises from his seat, adjusting his outer robes as he makes his way out of the room.

He never needs to be told to leave—actually, if Ling Wen was being honest…

He always seems eager to go.

Almost like he’s escaping from something.

The doors shut behind him, and, without making much more of it, she continues.

“We’ve had a rather eventful morning. Three ascensions. Two cast themselves back down, and the third—”

“Was Xianle,” Jun Wu mutters dryly. “I know.”

“…” Ling Wen nods, slightly…surprised by is mood. He’s always been fond of the Crown Prince. She thought he would be happy, to hear of his return. “Unfortunately, his ascension was rather destructive. The palace of Nan Yang was severely damaged, and Xuan Zhen was nearly—”

“Get to the point.”

Normally, he’s a bit more…polite than this, but Ling Wen knows better to comment, dipping her chin.

“The total damage is close to eight hundred thousand merits. It’s unlikely he’ll have a means of paying back the debt, given his…”

Jun Wu arches an eyebrow

“You’re trying to clean up the mess for him?” He muses, leaning his chin on his hand. “That’s surprisingly kind of you, Ling Wen.”

The Civil Goddess doesn’t reply, simply waiting for him to offer up a response. That’s the best thing to do, when his mood is like this.

Jun Wu is quiet for a moment, watching the door through which Wudu just disappeared, thinking. And then the idea comes to him. Something that has the guise of being helpful—but really, it’s somewhat vindictive.

“…Let him handle the Mount Yu Jun case.”

Ling Wen’s eyes widen.

“Sir—you mean the Ghost Groom? That’s a high level case, and he’s only just faced a calamity. He might need more time to recover—”

“It’ll be up to him,” Jun Wu shrugs. “But I doubt he’ll decline if you make him the offer. He’s always been willing to face a challenge.”

“…” Ling Wen bows her head in agreement, “If that’s what you desire, your highness—then I’ll pass it on.”

“Good,” Jun Wu sighs. “And we’ll have to organize a meeting of the grand deities relatively soon. There’s been quite a bit of discord recently that we need to discuss.”

“Yes, your grace.”

“And make sure Ming Guang receives his assignments for his next deployment. That way he doesn’t have to bother returning to the Heavens unnecessarily. We don’t want to waste his time.”

“We do have other Martial Gods available who could take on the work.”

It’s rare for her to make such a statement, but…

The workload that the emperor has placed on Ming Guang in the last few decades has been blatantly overbearing. Pei never complains, that isn’t in his nature, but…

It’s inefficient, when there are other options.

Xuan Zhen, Nan Yang, and Quan Yizhen are all powerful martial gods with the time and ability to take on the workload. And it—

“I believe I just deferred one of his cases to Xianle, didn’t I?” Jun Wu reminds her. His tone is calm. She knows better than to push it.

“There are responsibilities that come with being the second most powerful Martial God. Pei Ming understands that.”

Ling Wen bows her head once again in acknowledgement, but says little more on the matter.

She doesn’t believe it’s anything to do with that. Not for one moment.

Pei Ming has been in his position for a thousand years now. His relationship with Jun Wu is longer than even that of the Crown Prince of Xianle.

But only in the last century or so did his workload change so significantly, and Ling Wen, well—t’s not her business, but…

Something about this feels distinctly personal.

In any case—she has work to do, and vocalizing sympathy for Pei Ming any further won’t further the cause.

“Thank you for your time, your highness.”

“Of course.”

Ling Wen descends from the Imperial Residence—and she gets to work.

Xie Lian finds himself feeling…

Somewhat lost.

It’s been so long since he was in the Heavenly Capital—he would be lying if he said that he knew what to do with himself.

How did he spend his time up here, before? Shouldn’t he be…

“Your highness?”

He glances up, unaccustomed to being called by that title now, and he can’t exactly see who it is—but he can see the calm, gray aura of a civil god.

“You might not remember me. I’m the head civil god, Ling Wen?”

“Oh,” Xie Lian blinks, then smiles politely.

“I remember—but back when I was here last, you were a deputy I believe…” He trails off, trying not to date himself too much—he already feels sharply out of place. “Congratulations on the promotion.”

“It was centuries ago, but thank you,” Ling Wen replies calmly.

“I came to congratulate you as well.”

Xie Lian smiles again, “Well, I certainly wasn’t expecting this to happen today, but—”

“You’ve won this year’s contest of ‘God most likely to be kicked out of heaven,” She explains, and Xie Lian’s smile freezes.

“I…did?”

“Yes,” Ling Wen murmurs, “And you won one hundred merit credits. Congratulations.”

Xie Lian knew that the Heavens weren’t exactly busy these days, but this contest does seem…admittedly silly. In any case, he forces himself to keep smiling.

“I suppose it’s my lucky day.”

“Do you know why you won?”

Xie Lian shakes his head, and Ling Wen points in the direction of the central heavenly avenue, “Take a look at that bell, over there.”

The god pauses with a somewhat awkward smile, “I…um…I can’t do that.”

Ling Wen pauses, her eyebrows raising.

“…You still have your shackles, your highness?”

Even Xie Lian is surprised—after all, the second time he ascended, his original shackles disappeared, but…

“I’m sure there’s a reason for it. In any case—no, I can’t see the bell.”

“…I suppose it’s all the same,” Ling Wen mutters, “Because there is no bell. It was toppled by your ascension, as well as several palaces.”

“…Oh,” the crown prince winces. “I’m sorry, property damage has been a consistent issue of mine.“

Ling Wen doesn’t seem particularly surprised to hear it. “The bell almost crushed a official passing underneath when it fell.”

“…were they alright?!”

“Yes, he was a martial god—so he simply sliced it in half. But your entrance did not endear you to the Heavenly Court.”

Xie Lian didn’t expect they would be endeared to begin with, so! Good news!

He isn’t disappointed.

“Whatever the cost of repairs is—I can pay them back, I just need time—”

“To pull together 800,000 merit credits?”

The martial god pales, and Ling Wen sighs.

Jun Wu’s mood, for whatever reason, is putting everyone in a bind today.

“Don’t worry, your highness,” she mutters. She didn’t have much of an opinion of the martial god over the years, but Pei has always spoken of him highly.

And, in spite of his short comings…

Ling Wen trusts Pei’s judgement of a man.

“I have a plan.”

Which is what leads them directly to the Heavenly Communication Array. It’s been a long time since Xie Lian used one and…

He finds the experience distinctly unpleasant.

Everyone is too loud—there’s too much at once.

And most of them—pretty much all of them, actually—are complaining about him.

“What was the Emperor thinking, letting him ascend again?!”

“It’s not up to him, if he had a choice, I’m sure he—”

“Are you kidding?! He practically lets that child get away with everything.”

It’s odd, to be eight centuries old, and still have people calling him a child.

Ling Wen clears her throat, stepping forward. “Everyone, could I have your attention? I have a request from the emperor.”

That is enough to draw the yelling down to a hush, and Xie Lian is relieved.

“There’s a disturbance on Mount Yu Jun that the Heavenly Emperor and General Ming Guang have been too preoccupied to deal with. Could anyone spare a pair of martial deities to assist?”

A voice cuts through the array, sharp and quick to see through her.

“The emperor has made no such request before regarding the Yu Jun case. Are you really just trying to cover for someone else?”

“…” Ling Wen remains silent for a moment, and the voice continues.

“This is about the Crown Prince, isn’t it?”

The one who answer’s isn’t Ling Wen.

“It is.” Xie Lian’s voice rings out through the communication array, and everyone grows even more silent, like you couldn’t even hear a pin drop. “In any case, it’s alright. The fault here is mine, I don’t mind handling it by myself.”

After all, he’s always by himself.

It really isn’t such a big deal.

“…If you can,” the voice replies flatly. “I think we’re all a little skeptical after that entrance.”

Ling Wen reaches over, tugging Xie Lian’s sleeve in a gentle reminder. “Your highness—the bell.”

Oh.

Xie Lian winces.

“…I’m sorry the bell almost hit you,” he mutters. “I swear—it wasn’t on purpose. Could I ask your name?”

There’s an awkward, immediate rumble through the communication array. Xie Lian pauses, unsure of what he said wrong, until…

“Your highness—that’s General Xuan Zhen.”

Well. That explains why the voice was a little familiar.

Oh boy.

Xie Lian winces again, knowing better than anyone just how personally Mu Qing is going to take Xie Lian not recognizing him, but also knowing that saying anything more would only make matters worse.

But before there’s an opportunity for him to dig an even deeper hole, he hears—

“WHO DESTROYED MY PALACE?!”

Xie Lian bites back the urge to cover his face with his hands.

“WAS IT YOU?!”

Mu Qing’s voice is far more snide now, than it was before.

“Unlike your thoughts, the world doesn’t revolve around me. I had very little to do with it.”

Xie Lian’s eyebrows shoot up, and Feng Xin sputters.

“Watch your mouth before I—!”

“Before you what?!”

“It was me, actually.” Xie Lian speaks up. “Apologies, General Nan Yang.”

Nan Yang and Xuan Zhen stop arguing instantly—but Xie Lian can’t see the sharp look that the two share, before immediately looking away.

Rather than respond to his question directly—Feng Xin remains as gruff as ever. “…I have business to attend to. I’m going, now.”

Xie Lian’s smile turns a little sad.

Honestly, given the way that he and Feng Xin parted ways—the fact that he isn’t cursing the prince’s name is already more than Xie Lian deserves.

“…Thank you for trying, Ling Wen,” the god murmurs, exiting the communication array.

“I can handle this.”

The Civil Goddess grimaces, thinking back on what Jun Wu said just before—and…she’s a little shocked.

No one ever thanks her for her work. Not really. It’s just expected.

“I’m…only doing my job, your highness.” She replies.

“Do you need any heavenly arms?”

Xie Lian thinks on it for a moment. In honesty—he’s still recovering from the battle in Gusu.

He bears with pain now, but the bandages sound his throat now are more than usual—

The iron shackle did significant damage.

Even so…

The last true spiritual weapon he used was Fangxin, and…

Xie Lian can’t remember, in the years from when Bai Wuxiang first gave him that weapon, or all the centuries after, if it did him any good.

Just the memory of it makes one of his hands start to tremble slightly.

“No.”

Ling Wen sends him a surprised look, and Xie Lian grips his hand silently in an effort to stop the shaking, then smiles.

“They don’t do me much good, I’m afraid.”

Ling Wen glances him over, then nods.

Right, the shackles.

“Very well, I suppose a scroll wouldn’t be helpful—”

“I can still use those quite well, actually.” Xie Lian murmurs, taking it from her. “This has all the information I need?”

Ling Wen nods, demurring when the crown prince tries to thank her again, bowing her head. “Good luck, your highness—I wish you all of heavens blessings.”

Xie Lian stops in the middle of walking down the steps. It’s been a while, since someone used that phrase with him. It takes him back to…

Such a different time in his life.

But still, there’s a nostalgia to giving her the traditional response.

“And by Heaven Official’s Blessing…” He murmurs, glancing back at Ling Wen over his shoulder—and there’s such a warmth in his smile, lacking any guile—it leaves Ling Wen a little shell shocked by it’s honestly.

“No Paths Are Bound.”

There was one thing Xie Lian underestimated about the difficulty of this matter, however.

He knows the path out of Heaven, he took it plenty of times in his youth, but…

He didn’t remember how…nimble you had to be, on the path back down. That not having your sight…

It can actually be quite a hindrance when dropping that far through the air.

He smacks into not one, not two, but three clouds on the way down—leaving himself rather scraped and bruised by the time he lands, but…Xie Lian sighs, picking the leaves out of his hair as he sits up.

“You’ve had worse,” he mutters, sitting up—rubbing his lower back slightly when he does. It doesn’t hurt, but with his body’s slowed rate of recovery—

(He’s still healing from Gusu)

—it’ll be slightly inconvenient.

But that doesn’t slow him down.

He’s quick to make his way to a local tea house, ordering himself a drink before he goes about trying to collect information from the locals. After all—his task is to hunt a ghost. The best way to find it is to do preliminary research, but…

Something makes him pause.

/Clink!/

It’s this gentle chiming, almost like a bell, but not like any that Xie Lian has ever head before.

There’s something so gentle and clear about it—almost musical.

/Clink!/

The world went dark again, when he descended from the heavens—there isn’t much spiritual energy around to light the way, but…

Now, from the corner of his eye, there’s this gentle, silvery light.

Xie Lian turns his head to follow it, and his breath catches.

A…butterfly?

Xie Lian’s first instinct is to reach out for it, curious—expecting the creature to flutter away, but…

It doesn’t.

It lands delicately on his fingertips, crawling up and over his knuckles before sitting there—almost like it’s looking up at him, wings flapping delicately.

All he can think of, in that moment—is that’s beautiful.

Can’t stop the small smile that crosses his lips, remembering how his mother used to scold him as a child—always chasing butterflies,

It’s pleasantly against his skin, almost tingling, like a little…

There’s a sharp pang in Xie Lian’s heart.

It’s just a little cool to the touch, almost like a ghost fire.

‘Your highness…’

Xie Lian bites his lip, closing his eyes as he forces those thoughts down.

And what kind of butterfly is made from pure spiritual energy, anyway? He—

But as soon as he opens his eyes, the butterfly is already gone, and he’s just…

Alone, in the dark.

The god lets out a heavy sigh, closing his eyes once more. It’s better not to have them open in a place anyway, in case a mortal sees—

‘Your highness?’

The sound of Ling Wen’s voice in his private array startles him—most people don’t work their way out around the password—

(Poor Feng Xin really does say it a thousand times every time.)

(Xie Lian misses him.)

‘Yes?’

‘I have good news—two deputies have come to your aid.’

Xie Lian is a little surprised to hear it, since no one was particularly forthcoming during the meeting, but…

When he looks back across the table, two figures are already there.

One has a hard, firm aura—almost earthen in color, though not in an unpleasant way.

The other is spiky, a little inconsistent around the edges—and with an icy shade that looks frigid, but warmer shades of magenta towards the core.

Well. These must be the officials in question, then.

Xie Lian sips his tea a little awkwardly, then smiles. “Have we met before?”

There’s a long beat of silence—and from the sounds of their movements, Xie Lian can only assume that they’re shaking their heads. “Well, could I ask your—?”

“Nan Feng,” the hard aura’d man on the right mutters, his voice deep and warm.

“…Fu Yao,” says the other.

“And the generals you work for—?”

“Nan Yang.”

“Xuan Zhen.”

Xie Lian pales slightly, startled.

Neither of the martial gods seemed particularly happy to see him in the communication array before. And Xie Lian understood that, but…why help him now?

“They…sent you?”

Nan Feng is quiet, but Fu Yao replies rather quickly, “Neither of them know that we’re here, actually.”

That makes Xie Lian relax a little. “And you know who I am?”

“The Crown Prince of Xianle,” Nan Feng replies easily.

“The Heart of Humanity,” Fu Yao mutters, his tone flat.

“…It kinda sounds like you’re rolling your eyes right now,” Xie Lian admits, laughing a little awkwardly.

“That’s because he is,” Nan Feng glares. “Just go away if you’re gonna have a shit attitude, alright? We don’t need you.”

“Ha. Why don’t you go? You’re the useless one!”

“Now, now…” Xie Lian starts, finding this whole thing vaguely familiar, but…

In the Private Communication array between Feng Xin and Mu Qing, a very different conversation is unfolding.

‘Nan Feng?! How stupid are you?!’

‘Wh—?!’ He blanches, glancing at Xie Lian. ‘What?!’

‘Oh,’ Fu Yao rolls his eyes, crossing his arms, ‘I’m gonna pose as my own Deputy God so the Crown Prince doesn’t know I’m helping him. I know the best Alias! I’m gonna pick my first name as a mortal, and my surname as a god, he’ll never put it together!’

Nan Feng gets redder and redder, all the way up to his ears, ‘It could be a coincidence!’

‘At best, it makes you look like some creepy fanboy that’s obsessed with Nan Yang.’

‘Then I’ll tell him that’s my god name and make up a mortal name!’

‘As much as I’d enjoy watching you try…you’re better off just sticking with it,’ Fu Yao shrugs, only to jump when Nan Feng pointedly (and silently) shoves a finger in his face.

‘And what’s with that skin?’

The ‘Deputy’ God smiles slyly, tilting his head, ‘What do you mean?’

‘It looks a lot like me!’ Nan Feng snaps, looking him over.

Well, a smaller, prettier version of him, but still—

Fu Yao’s smile widens as he twirls a lock of hair around his finger, crossing his legs under the table.

‘Hate to break it to you—but I just picked the ugliest skin I could think of.’

A vein pops in Nan Feng’s shoulder as he goes to launch himself at the other god, and Xie Lian—who has been listening to their mostly silent exchange, is absolutely baffled, but also concerned.

“Hey! Can you two work together to help me, or is this going to be a problem?”

Nan Feng is already gripping Fu Yao by the throat, irritated.

Even in this form, he just has to wear a choker, doesn’t he?

They glare at one another before backing off with a huff.

“Of course!”

Xie Lian is quick to explain the terms of their case, offering the details he knows.

About the brides who have been stolen from the Mountain over the last century. Sixteen of them—until recently, when an officer’s daughter was taken.

All by the Ghost Groom of Mount Yu Jun.

“So,” Fu Yao sighs, walking out of the tea house with his arms crossed, lingering behind the Crown Prince and Nan Feng, watching them walk side by side, “How do we find hi—oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

Xie Lian blinks, confused. “…What?”

“Can’t you see it?” Nan Feng frowns

“…No,” Xie Lian shakes his head. “I still have the shackles.”

Nan Feng and Fu Yao glance at one another, visibly concerned—but neither says a word.

“It’s a bridal sedan,” Fu Yao mutters. “Someone’s really having a wedding now of all times.”

Xie Lian frowns.

That’s just too dangerous, they can’t possibly allow—

“You can’t!” A voice, that of a young girl cries out.

Nan Feng and Fu Yao watches as the young woman rushes over to the bridal sedan, struggling with the escorts.

“Miss!” She cries. “They’re just using you!”

“Would you just shut up!” One of the young men near the front of the group grumbles. “Stop getting in the way, you stupid little brat!”

“Honestly, it’s a good thing an ugly dog like you refused to dress up for us anyway! We would’ve been screwed!”

Xie Lian’s frown deepens.

“She is kind of plain,” Fu Yao comments, looking her over—and Xie Lian sends him a disapproving look.

“You shouldn’t say that about a young lady, no matter what she looks like.” The god mutters.

Nan Feng watches the other deputy get scolded—infinitely satisfied.

Well—until the young woman struggling with the group stumbles forward, and there’s a distinctly wooden sound from inside the bridal sedan, and the clunk of something falling out.

From the sound of it they were using a mannequin instead of an actual bride.

“…Look what you did!”

One of them snaps. “The ghost groom might have already seen it! Now we’ll have to come up with something completely different!”

“You shouldn’t go there anyway!” The girl—Xiao Ying, from the way the others are shouting their grievances—cries out. “It’s too dangerous!”

“Mind your own damn business!” The gang leader of the group snarls, giving her a shove.

Xie Lian stiffens when he hears a rip—likely the girl’s skirt—and the sound of her falling to the ground.

“I’ll teach you not to stick that ugly nose where it doesn’t belong!”

Xiao Ying stiffens, her eyes widening with fear as she throws her arms around her face, cringing when the man pulls his foot back to kick her, but…

It never lands.

There’s a grip on the gang leader’s wrist, his eyes widening slightly before that grip twists and shoves.

He’s sent stumbling back, flipping head over heels before landing on the ground with a violent—

/THUD!/

The group of criminals stops, looking at one another nervously as a white robed cultivator stands before them, tipping back his bamboo hat as he stands over the young woman.

Still, in spite of the violence, he smiles pleasantly. “I think that’s enough, don’t you?”

Their leader sits up, rubbing his wrist with annoyance. “What kind of witch are you?!” He hisses, rising to his feet. “And why don’t you mind your own business?!”

The cultivator’s smile never fades. “I could ask you why you lay your hands on defenseless young women, but life is full of mysteries, huh?”

“…” He glares, looking over to his men, “GET—!”

/BOOM!/

Nan Feng’s fist slams into the side of the tea house as a warning.

Which is very impressive, obviously—given the fact that the front entrance shatters along with a nearby tree.

But rather costly.

It only takes a moment before the group is sent scrambling away with terror, and Xie Lian can kneel down to offer the young lady a hand.

“Are you alright? Oh…” He trails off, remembering the sound of something ripping. That was her skirt, right?

She glances up shakily, just in time to see the handsome young man smiling down at her, and—

That he’s removing his outer robe.

Quickly, her expression shifts.

/CRACK!/

Both Nan Feng and Fu Yao gawks as they watch the prince get slapped—quite hard, actually.

(Xie Lian couldn’t see the change in her expression, so he obviously didn’t know to try to dodge it.)

“P-PERVERT!” She shouts, leaping to her feet and scrambling away.

“Ah…”

Xie Lian sighs dropping his robes back around his shoulders. “I suppose I should have realized how that was going to come off…”

“I’m surprised she thinks anyone could be interested at all…”

“Fu Yao.” Xie Lian sends him a stern look. “Enough.”

He can’t see the tense shift in the deputy god’s expression. The way he crosses his arms over his chest and looks away, his gaze…conflicted.

“Well,” Xie Lian sighs, patting himself off. “We should probably find a place to stay…” He glances over at the Tea House Owner.

Nan Feng is in the middle of settling the terms of his property damage (which was extensive, Xie Lian can relate), but it doesn’t hurt to ask—

“Is there a temple of Ming Guang nearby?”

After all, they’re in the heart of his territory.

“Oh—no, not for many miles.”

“…” Xie Lian’s expression becomes a little troubled. “How odd.”

“There used to be,” the owner explains, finishing out Nan Feng’s tab. “But they kept on burning down—so people stopped rebuilding them.”

And Pei Ming hasn’t interceded?

That’s even more odd.

Between that and Gusu, it would have been a significant undermining of his strength. But—then again, he’s grown so significant as a martial god now, his renown is only beaten by Jun Wu. People worship him the entire continent over. Maybe he really didn’t notice…?

“But,” the merchant speaks up, dragging Xie Lian from his thoughts. “A Nan Yang temple is actually rather close.”

Nan Feng makes a face, opening his mouth to say something about getting an inn, but Fu Yao grins, taking the prince by the elbow and steering him off.

“Perfect!”

“Why are you so excited?” Nan Feng grumbles, trying to catch up with him, and Fu Yao shrugs, his steps light.

“Why aren’t you? It’s gonna feel like home sweet home for you.”

“You’re smirking about something—!”

They grumble back and forth, with Xie Lian in the middle, and…

Part of him can’t help but smile, leaning into Fu Yao’s hold on his arm a little bit, remembering different days.

He didn’t ever think he could feel nostalgic about that bickering, but…

He tilts his hat down slightly in order to hide the way his eyes soften.

It’s…nice.

His lips tighten slightly at the corners, trembling a little.

Life has taken a lot from Xie Lian, over the years. It’s rare that it ever gives something back—even if only briefly, in a moment like this.

He’s learned to be grateful for it.

And when they arrive in the temple…

The bickering intensifies.

“Stop giggling!”

“I didn’t giggle!”

“You did a little,” Xie Lian points out, eyebrows knitting together. “When we walked under the entrance sign.”

“Oh, well…” Fu Yao smirks, “Wanna know why?”

Nan Feng has turned absolutely purple. “Shut it—!”

“You see,” he carries on, leading Xie Lian through the temple by the arm, “back in the day—very, very far back, there was a king that was incredibly dedicated to Nan Yang, so dedicated, he built more temples than any other had for the god before!”

“Is that true?”

Xie Lian looks to Nan Feng, who squirms with discomfort, arms crossed. “Yes,” he replies stiffly. “The king was very generous, but—!”

“But,” Fu Yao cuts him off, “apparently not the best with clerical work, because there was a significant typo.”

“…Typo?”

“IT’S BEEN FIXED!”

“See, instead of the brave, honorable, fierce General Nan Yang, it was the huge, thick…pulsing, some might say—!”

“WOULD YOU SHUT UP?!” Nan Feng snarls, fists trembling, and Xie Lian hasn’t been quite this baffled in a long time.

Those are really odd adjectives for Feng Xin.

He’s a pretty big person, and as a result somewhat thick in the limbs and chest Xie Lian supposes, but pulsing? Who calls a man pulsing?

“—General DICK Yang.”

Xie Lian’s jaw drops slightly, and Nan Feng’s face falls in his hands.

“…Oh my…that’s…quite an error…”

“Yeah,” Fu Yao sighs, “He even blamed the General Xuan Zhen for it, even though he had nothing to do with it. Almost bit his tongue off over the whole thing.”

Xie Lian rubs his chin.

Wasn’t the phrase…biting someone’s head off?

“It’s been CORRECTED, and no one CARES!”

“It sounds like you care, actually.”

It takes a moment of horrified staring and squawking from Nan Feng for Xie Lian to realize he just said that out loud, and he blanches. “Oh, I’m sorry—”

“And most of the worshippers in Nan Yang’s temples are women…” Fu Yao muses with a grin

“Most of them blush when they say their prayers I hear…”

Nan Feng is trembling with rage at this point, and Xie Lian almost feels bad for him.

“Come on, it’s not that funny…Feng Xin isn’t like that when it comes to women—”

“Oh, don’t worry Dianxia,” Fu Yao crosses his arms.

“He probably wouldn’t mind. He’s very experienced.” He stares down Nan Feng, eyes slightly narrowed. “Different cultivation methods and all that.”

Xie Lian looks like you could knock him over with a feather, and Nan Feng looks like he’s in the middle of a stroke.

“YOU—!”

He cuts himself off, mouthing the words, ‘WOULD YOU LET THAT GO?!’

Fu Yao seems utterly fascinated with his cuticles. “He’s not as flashy as Ming Guang, but he’s actually a pretty terrible heartbreaker from what I hear.”

“I swear, I’ll—”

“Why so offended, Nan Feng?”

Fu Yao’s gaze cuts up to meet his. “Your general isn’t around. Why does it matter?”

The Deputy God grits his teeth. “Because the prince doesn’t need to hear this filth. Why don’t you go sweep the floor or something?!”

There’s a beat of silence, and Xie Lian sighs.

Oh dear.

“Excuse me?” Fu Yao questions flatly.

“Your general isn’t around,” Nan Feng counters snidely. “Why so offended, Fu Yao?”

“…” He takes a step closer, letting go of Xie Lian’s arm. “Then I’d tell you to start guarding the prince, but you’d just end up ditching halfway through.”

This is usually when it spirals out of control.

“I wouldn’t tell you to do anything for the prince, because no one could trust you to stick around even for a second! If—you were like your general!”

Something about that statement seems to strike deeper than Nan Feng meant it to.

Trust.

Because he mentioned trust.

Fu Yao opens his mouth, ready to snarl something even worse in response, when—

He notices Xie Lian wiping at something in his hand, about to put it in his mouth.

“Don’t EAT THAT!” He snaps, swatting it out of the god’s hands. “It’s dirty!”

Xie Lian stares down at the discarded mantou mournfully. “It looked fine…”

“Don’t LIE, you can’t even SEE IT!”

“Don’t YELL AT HIM—!” Nan Feng snaps, taking a step forward, and finally—

“ENOUGH!”

Both young men fall completely silent.

It’s almost like hearing a ghost.

Because it’s been so, so long since they’ve heard Xie Lian’s voice, but…even longer since they’ve heard him speak like that.

It’s a side of him that both men just…assumed was gone.

“You’re both talking about who is more like you’re general—well you’re both just like them!”

Xie Lian crosses his arms. “Yelling at each other over me, putting me in the middle—it’s unfair!”

They both open their mouths, and before either can say another word, the prince holds up a finger, stopping them.

“And I don’t want EITHER of you speaking badly about Nan Yang or Xuan Zhen in front of me.”

They look even more shocked now, but…especially Fu Yao, who’s eyes are the size of dinner plates.

“Both were good friends who served me well, and I won’t hear either one them insulted.”

There’s quiet for a moment, before Nan Feng, a little childishly, mutters—

“He always starts it.”

Fu Yao doesn’t even have a response for that one, because it’s true—but Xie Lian…

“Then maybe you should think about why.”

The deputy god stares, eyes wide and stinging

Mu Qing knows that Xie Lian doesn’t know that he’s there to hear it, but…still.

No one’s ever…defended him before.

Ever.

He’s so busy watching the martial god with wide eyes, he doesn’t see the way that Feng Xin is watching him.

With a new, unreadable sort of expression.

(But, to be fair—Mu Qing never really does notice the way that Feng Xin looks at him. Especially not in moments like this.)

After a long moment, Xie Lian jumps when he feels fingertips brush against his chin. Normally, he doesn’t really like it when people touch his face, but…

He sits still, letting Fu Yao examine the small welt on his cheek from getting slapped. “…People bite the hands that feed them,” the deputy deity grumbles. “You should know that by now.”

Xie Lian offers a tired smile as Fu Yao rummages around for something to dress it.

“It’s really fine. I should have thought about how it might startle her…”

Fu Yao pause in the middle of examining his cheek, noticing Xie Lian’s neck. “…Your highness, you’re pretty scratched up. Did you get in a fight before we arrived? Who did it?”

“…No, no,” Xie Lian shakes his head with an awkward smile. “I just got a little scratched up on the way down, I…hit a few obstacles. And before that, I was wounded during my ascension—”

“Wounded?” Nan Feng frowns. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“The injuries are minor.”

Xie Lian shrugs, but…well…

It actually would be a good idea to re-dress the bandages anyway. He wears too much white to risk them bleeding through.

Both deputy gods move aside as Xie Lian strips down to his trousers, using the extra bandages in his bag to replace the old ones

“…Minor?” Fu Yao questions softly. He’s sitting back against the altar, watching Xie Lian with his knees pulled up to his chest, arms wrapped around them.

In Xie Lian’s defense, he can’t see how bad it looks.

“I forgot about them until you mentioned the bleeding—it’s fine!”

But without spiritual power—his body heals slower than that of a normal god, and it bruises far more easily.

His back…is a mess of cut, scrapes, and bruises. There are several healing lacerations on his ribs, one on his upper arm. And his neck…

Even where the cursed shackle sits, there’s a deep burn mark beneath it, like someone wrapped a burning noose around him.

Nan Feng and Fu Yao look at one another.

It’s not as if the prince was a weakling before—he never was. But he also grew up in a life of luxury.

He would push through the pain if he needed to—but his pain tolerance was average. Not to the point where he could have walked around with wounds like that without saying anything.

And now, looking at one another—they’re thinking of the same question:

What could have happened to make his tolerance change that drastically? Just…

What happened to him, in all those years?

Xie Lian glances around, re-administering his bandages, assuming the silence is for an entirely different reason.

“…First time seeing a cursed shackle?”

Nan Feng and Fu Yao glance away from one another, with the former clearing his throat awkwardly, and the latter picking the dirt out from underneath his nails.

“Yes. Is it painful?” Nan Feng mutters, trying to sound casual, and…

God, it’s hard for Fu Yao not to punch him.

Xie Lian’s smile doesn’t change as he shakes his head, moving the new bandages back over his skin—leaving his neck bare, until Ruoye slides back into place.

“No, not at all.”

The shackle in his eyes was paining him, yes—but that stopped after leaving Gusu.

Nan Feng seems slightly relieved to hear it, but Fu Yao just sighs, trying to change the subject to something that makes him feel a little less…

Responsible.

“What’s our plan for tackling the Ghost Groom, anyway?“ He mutters.

“It’s not like we’re going to hear much more from the locals about it.”

Xie Lian thinks it over. “I’m not sure. It’s difficult when there aren’t any living witnesses, so we don’t even know anything about the ghost’s appearance, strengths, or lair. It’s risky.”

Fu Yao huffs, trying not to look in Nan Feng’s direction, because if he looks at that intent, worried expression on his face while he watches the crown prince one more time, he’s going to throw up.

“We should just dress up a girl like those guys were going to, then.”

“No,” Xie Lian frowns, shaking his head. “If we used an actual girl for that, and something went wrong—she’d end up getting killed.”

The entire point of this mission is to protect more young women from facing that fate. Xie Lian isn’t willing to risk another.

“Yeah, I agree…” Nan Feng speaks up, rubbing the side of his neck. “But I also don’t know of another way to draw out the ghost. Those creatures—they’re motivated by desire, and focused. It could lay dormant for months until another bride comes across it’s path.”

Xie Lian pauses, tilting his head. “…Are ghosts really like that?”

He hasn’t known very many. The Ghost Fire and Wu Ming—who in the end, turned out to be one in the same—he was the only Ghost Xie Lian really spent any time with in a meaningful way.

And he seemed so…selfless.

Nan Feng nods—and for once, Fu Yao doesn’t argue or make any snide commends. Other than Ming Guang, General Nan Yang has dealt with more cases in the Mortal Realm than anyone—

And seen the damage that the undead can do to humans more than most.

“Many ghosts linger on for harmless reasons, but the powerful ones? Their desires…are what dominate their every thought, action, and motivation. It’s all they are.” Fu Yao shrugs. “Once you know that, you can handle most of them.”

“…Not every powerful ghost,” Xie Lian murmurs.

Nan Feng raises an eyebrow, and the prince explains—

“I met one once, many years ago—and all he wanted to do was protect someone he loved.” Xie Lian’s fingers twitch towards his chest, but if there was a reason for it, he can’t remember why.

“…Then he’d be the one exception.”

Nan Feng shrugs.

Xie Lian nods, his smile a little…glum, thinking back on that.

He hopes, when Wu Ming dispersed—

Xie Lian hopes that precious person finally found their way back to him again.

“In any case—what this ghost wants—it’s to kill brides, and it’s intelligent.”

Nan Feng sighs. “It wouldn’t have come out for that mannequin those men were going to try to pass off, and it won’t risk exposure unless it has prey within it’s sights.”

Xie Lian sighs, rubbing his chin. “That’s…a conundrum. Since we can’t risk a mortal’s life—”

“Okay,” Fu Yao speaks up once more. “Then why don’t we use something that isn’t mortal?”

Xie Lian pauses, surprised. “…Is that an option?”

Nan Feng doesn’t get it at first—not until he looks over at Fu Yao, who is pointing in…the prince’s direction.

It’s rare, that the two of them are ever willingly on an inside joke together, but…

“You have the slightest frame of the three of us,” Fu Yao comments, “you’d be a little tall, for a bride, but…”

Xie Lian’s eyes widen slightly, shackle gleaming in the candlelight.

“…Me?”

Xie Lian hasn’t exactly seen his own frame in…nearly a millennia, but he’s never thought of himself as ‘slight,’ before. His body has always done everything that he needed it to do, and no man has ever bested him in strength, but…

He squeezes his own forearm with a frown.

Then, he reaches over to squeeze F—Nan Feng’s forearm with a frown, eyebrows pinching more and more as he checks Fu Yao’s in turn, and he realizes…

Well, he is far more thin than either of them. He doesn’t remember being that much smaller than they were when they were young.

But…well…

Xie Lian also hasn’t been what one would consider ‘well fed’ in eight centuries, and a divine body only makes up for so much.

In a rare moment of perception, Nan Feng comments, “He didn’t mean that you were small, your highness. Just smaller than either of us.”

“I wasn’t offended,” Xie Lian mutters. And in truth, he isn’t. His size isn’t particularly relevant—

(Not when he can still throw a thirty meter tall demon by the tail like a stuffed animal, anyway.)

—it’s just unnerving sometimes, to realize…

He doesn’t actually know what his own body looks like. Not anymore.

“But could I really pass as someone’s beautiful bride to be?”

The other two look at one another yet again, this time—equally exasperated.

“It’ll be cutting it close,” Fu Yao replies dryly. “But we’ll manage.”

“…Well,” Xie Lian sighs, tapping his chin. “What time is it?”

“It’s too late for us to go tonight,” Fu Yao sighs. “We’ll have to hire some proper escorts—and find a dress somewhere, for you,” he mutters, waggling his eyebrows.

“There’s no need for that.”

“We can’t just have you wear what you have on now,” Fu Yao frowns. “No one would buy it!”

“I know,” Xie Lian rises back up to his feet, re-fastening his outer robe, his body covered once more. “But I can make one on my own.”

“…uh…” The Deputy Gods glance at one another again.

Certainly Xie Lian must have gained some worldly skills in the last eight hundred years, they both understand that—but…For someone who never even mended his own clothes as a child….

(Really, his clothes were never mended to begin with—just donated after a single tear.)

And when you consider how plain the clothes he’s wearing now are, it’s hard to believe that he’s…particularly skilled in that area.

“Really, money isn’t an object,” Nan Feng speaks up. “And for how quickly we’ll need it done—”

“I just need thread, the rest I can handle.”

Xie Lian shrugs, “Fu Yao—why don’t you handle that, I’ll tell you what colors and lengths I need—and Nan Feng, you can arrange the escort.” He glances over at the two, “Does that sound like a plan?”

Both stare up at him, feeling surprisingly…

Nostalgic.

It’s not so different from how he used to talk, back when they were teenagers, planning missions with far higher stakes.

“…Yeah,” Fu Yao mutters, looking away. “Fine.”

They both set out that morning with their tasks in mind—but Fu Yao tells Nan Feng to get an extra dress.

After all, who asks for just…thread?

Silk thread, to be specific—and for someone that’s been blind for eight centuries, he’s perfectly familiar with the shades he wants—he even asks for a specific type of dye.

It’s baffling, and when Fu Yao returns to the temple—he gawks.

“Is that a LOOM?”

“Oh,” Xie Lian glances up with a smile, “I didn’t think I was going to need it before—but Ling Wen was kind enough to have someone bring it down for me. Did you bring the thread?”

“You’re…” Fu Yao sputters. “Going to weave your own silk?!”

Xie Lian nods, taking the box of thread from him—each spool has a label that he can tell apart by feel, making it easy for him to pick out the proper colors. “I’m fast, time won’t be an issue.”

Fu Yao doubts that he—even with godly speed—could manage that in only a few hours.

Or that whatever result he could manage would be better than what they could get in a shop, for that matter.

“There’s no need to be so thrifty, money isn’t an object—”

“I’m not,” Xie Lian shakes his head. “I just really wanted to.”

Fu Yao watches him get started—and he wasn’t exaggerating about one thing—

He does move fast.

“Why would you want the extra work?”

The prince shrugs, fingers tiny blurs as they fly over the loom.

But when he looks at Fu Yao, his smile is genuine.

“They’re my favorite.”

“…Your favorite?” Fu Yao mutters, struggling to understand.

“Wedding gowns,” Xie Lian explains, the smile never fading from his lips. “They’re my favorite thing to make.”

“…Have you made a lot of them?”

The prince hums in agreement. “I’ve lost count by now.”

Fu Yao drops down to sit on the floor beside him, watching curiously. “…What’s so special about them?”

“Most of the time, when I would make clothes for people—it was just selling it at a stall. But wedding robes—they’re special, they have to be fitted.”

Even his voice sounds a little bit more alive now, talking about it—like the topic genuinely does make him happy.

“So, I’d always get to talk to the brides—and they were usually so excited…”

And when they weren’t, the weaver would help them make the match…fall through.

But they usually were happy.

So, so happy, the kind that you can hear in a person’s voice, even if you can’t see them smiling.

“Listening to them—it made me feel happy too.”

Fu Yao picks at the laces on his boots. “I didn’t know you were so passionate about weddings.”

Finally, that smile on Xie Lian’s face dims just a bit—then turns teasing. “I don’t see how you would—we met yesterday.”

“…” Fu Yao’s fingers go still over his boots, and his cheeks flush. “General Xuan Zhan never mentioned it.”

“Does he say much about me?”

The Deputy God doesn’t reply, his posture tense from where he’s curled up on the floor, knees against his chest—and Xie Lian shakes his head with a soft laugh, letting the after drop.

“I always knew that I was never going to get married,” He murmurs. “But I like marriage.”

The prince leans back from his work for a moment, his gaze a little far away. “It’s like…promising to keep one thing in your life with you—no matter what.”

Fu Yao makes a face, “That sounds awful.”

Xie Lian snorts, not surprised that he would feel that way.

“…I don’t know,” his fingers go still for a moment, and his eyes soften. “There’s nothing quite like being loved by someone that would never leave you.”

Everything else feel so cold, after that. So empty. Even if it’s not that kind of love, there’s…

There’s nothing like it.

“…Your highness—?”

“Wedding dresses just bring up good memories for me, I guess.” He mutters, focusing once again on his work.

After all—the point of weddings is to make a partner feel loved. Wanted. Cherished.

What could be more beautiful than that? He really can’t imagine.

Xie Lian’s been loved many times before. He’s been wanted by countless men and women. But rarely has he been cherished—and when he was, it was so brief.

But when he thinks of happiness—he remembers the brides he helped over the years. The excited laughter, and breathless smiles.

When he thinks back on the way Xiong Li sounded, rushing into Lan An’s arms, crying out, ‘I love you—I love you so much!’

He can’t help but wonder what kind of bridal robes they might wear, and how happy the two will be if and when that day comes.

And he thinks…

Xie Lian tries not to think about it often, but sometimes—he thinks about the fact that, the last night Hong-er was alive, they had an argument.

Over Xie Lian thinking that the teenager should go, and Hong-er refusing.

Because he never would have left. Not ever.

He would have spent the rest of his life following Xie Lian. And it makes sense, that he…he was buried in…

“Do you have a favorite?”

He’s started out of his thoughts by the sound of Fu Yao’s voice. Begrudging. “Hmm?”

“A favorite wedding dress,” the deputy god mumbles.

Xie Lian’s heart aches slightly.

He’s not so oblivious that he can’t tell when someone is trying to distract him as a kindness.

“…I did one for the wife of a student,” he explains.

“You had a student?”

“Once or twice, over the centuries.” Xie Lian shrugs.

“He was my first. And he…wasn’t so sure about settling down and getting married.”

(Not unless it was to him.)

“So, I worked extra hard to sell him on the idea.”

Fu Yao scoffs, shaking his head, “The poor bride…”

“She never really minded, and…” The god smiles, remembering.

“When he saw her in that dress for the first time, he gasped—and you just knew, that was the moment when he fell in love with her.”

“I never knew you were such a romantic.”

Fu Yao’s voice sounds so dry. They’re alone in the temple, and Xie Lian can’t see, but…

He’s smiling.

Sitting there like that, watching the god work, his knees pulled up against his chest. They’ve never gotten to speak to one another like this before—not in ages.

Even if it’s under a guise like this…it’s nice.

“What’s with the pattern?”

“Hmm?” Xie Ian hums.

Ah, right.

Flowers are traditional for bridal gowns. And this one does have those—down where the spine is going to be, trailing over the shoulders, golden petals trailing down, but…

“You mean the butterflies?”

Those aren’t quite as traditional.

“I just…had them on my mind, I guess.”

He would have made them silver, if that wouldn’t have looked so out of place in a wedding gown.

He doesn’t get to see shapes or forms that clearly—not ever. And that…that butterfly…

It was beautiful.

The process of this dress is slightly different from what he’s used to.

Normally, he’d fit it exactly to the bride’s measurements, but, well—

You can’t just make a woman’s dress, and expect it to look correct on someone with a man’s shape. The waist has to be cut differently, along with the shoulders—all too create an illusion of curve. Soft edges.

He creates long, draping sleeves to hide any sign of muscle. Adds a little give in the neckline, to create the illusion of a swell in the chest.

Xie Lian has no way of knowing if his face could pass for that of a bride, but with this—his body certainly won’t give him away.

For the veil, the silk is woven much finger, leaving it almost translucent—with the same matching butterfly detailing around the edges.

Maybe Xie Lian couldn’t use silver—but the thread he used is a reflective shade—the sort that glows like liquid gold under the light.

When he’s finished, he slips behind a changing screen to try it on, pleased to find that he got the proportions correct, and it seems to sit on his body the way it should.

Just then, Nan Feng enters the main hall. “I’ve got our escorts, do we need the extra—?”

He starts, then falls silent. They both do, as the crown prince comes out from behind the screen, robes swishing around him gently as he walks.

“…No,” Fu Yao replies, his voice somewhat hoarse. “I don’t think we need it.”

“Right,” Nan Feng agrees faintly, “You’re right.”

Xie Lian lifts up his veil, glancing back and forth between the two swirling shapes of spiritual energy, raising an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” Fu Yao mutters. “I can handle his hair. We don’t want it up anyway, that would make him look too tall.”

After all—for a man, Xie Lian isn’t particularly big, but for a woman, he’s taller than most.

The one problem they do run into, however, is the makeup.

Xie Lian sits perfectly still, and he’s assuming the process is going well, but…

Nan Feng frowns.

“I thought makeup was supposed to make him look better? He looks worse than he did when you started.”

“Would you shut up?” Fu Yao glares. “It’s not like I’ve done this before.”

“You wear eyeliner every damn day.”

That makes the deputy god raise an eyebrow sharply.

“And you notice?”

Nan Feng’s cheeks darken immediately, and Xie Lian sits there awkwardly, clearing his throat.

“…” Fu Yao turns back to him with a huff. “His eyeliner’s fine, it’s just…” He looks Xie Lian over with a grimace.

The God smiles kindly. “I’m sure it’s fine.”

It’s not. It really, really not. Honestly, he looked fine without it, but now? He looks clownish. And Fu Yao is too proud to admit that in front of Nan Feng, but if they send him to the Ghost Groom like this…

It’ll take one look under the veil and disperse from the shock.

“…Okay, maybe we can just wipe it—”

“Excuse me, sir?”

All three of them fall silent at the sound of a young girl’s voice, echoing from the front of the temple.

“I…came to say I was sorry about yesterday,” Xiao Ying mutters. “I realized after that you were trying to help.”

Xie Lian peeks out from around Fu Yao’s arm with a smile, his eyes carefully pressed shut. “It’s alright—most young ladies aren’t so assertive about enforcing their boundaries. It’s a good thing, really.”

Fu Yao wipes a hand down his face. “Stop saying ‘young ladies.’”

“Why?”

“It makes you sound so old.” The Deputy God grumbles.

Well. Xie Lian is old. Maybe not physically—or even mentally, he’s finding the mind matures slower when immortality comes into question—but literally.

“…You’re going after the groom aren’t you?” Xiao Ying questions.

At first, Xie Lian is about to ask how she knows that—and then, his cheeks are going slightly pink under whatever awful pasty material Fu Yao plastered over his cheeks. “I…um, this isn’t for fun or anything,” he agrees. “Definitely work related!”

Fu Yao rubs his temples.

“You made that sound so suspicious…” He mutters, but…

Xiao Ying doesn’t seem to think so, smiling a little awkwardly. “Well—your dress is pretty much perfect, but…I’m good with make up. I could probably make you look a little more bride like—”

“Anything is better than Fu Yao’s makeup,” Nan Feng agrees, ushering her forward, receiving a nasty little glare from his partner, who crosses his arms over his chest with a huff.

And to be fair—the results must be better, because when she’s finished—no one complains.

Actually, Nan Feng and Fu Yao are pretty quiet for the rest of the walk outside. It’s Nan Feng who steps in to lead him this time, taking the prince by the elbow, gently helping him up into the bridal sedan.

“Ready?”

Xie Lian settles back in the chair, feeling a little…odd.

“Yes, thank you.”

It’s not as if he’s never ridden in a sedan before—he did that often when he was a little boy, sitting beside his mother during royal processions.

But as an adult man? Never. And…

Xie Lian can’t remember the last time he experienced anything remotely close to being ‘pampered.’

Actually, that was probably the Beauty Pageant. But he’s long since repressed that memory.

“Do we know anything about how the Ghost Groom fights?” Nan Feng mumbles.

He walks close to the bridal sedan, his eyes closely surveying the forest, and Xie Lian shakes his head.

“Ling Wen didn’t say much on the matter. Heaven hasn’t been able to do much besides survey it’s ranking.”

“Ranking?” Fu Yao pipes up sharply. “You failed to mention that.”

“Well, I didn’t think it mattered,” Xie Lian frowns, almost rubbing his cheek—then remembering that it would mess up his makeup. “Ghosts are either powerful or they’re not, right? I assumed we were dealing with the former.”

“…No,” Nan Feng groans. “That’s not how it works.”

“What were you doing all this time in the mortal realm, not to know something as basic as that?!” Fu Yao grumbles, crossing his arms.

“…Making…wedding dresses?” Xie Lian supplies awkwardly—and to his surprise, it actually does draw a snort out of the deputy god.

Nan Feng, however, seems focused not delivering the relevant information. “There are four ranks of ghost. Malice, menace, savage, and Calamities. Do you remember which one Ling Wen said?”

“…Savage,” Xie Lian replies, sending it when he deputies wince. “…Is that bad?”

“…One step short of the worst case scenario,” Fu Yao mutters.

“True, but there’s also three of us,” Nan Feng shrugs, “It should be alright…”

“You say three, but one of us is blind and doesn’t have any spiritual power.”

“Okay, two and a half—!”

Xie Lian really doesn’t imagine that this creature could be more powerful than Wen Jiao, and he was able to handle that with just himself and two human cultivators.

“You know,” he cuts them both off to end the bickering. “This bridal procession is missing something.”

“…What?”

“Two maids for the bride,” Xie Lian comments wryly.

Nan Feng practically recoils, as he typically does from all mention of “womanly” things, activities, or individuals in relation to himself—

(It’s probably a phobia at this point.)

But Fu Yao seems unbothered by it.

“Your family is too poor for maids, so sad.”

“But I thought money was no object?”

Nan Feng seems a little surprised—and almost uneasy—by how easily the two are conversing, but…

When Fu Yao replies, his tone is…mysteriously, inexplicably bitter.

“Unfortunately, I don’t come cheap.”

Nan Feng sends him a sharp look, irritated with what comes off as unnecessary, arrogant condescension, but…

To Xie Lian, he sounds sarcastic. Maybe even…pained.

HIs lips turn down into a small frown. “M—!”

Then, he falls silent.

So suddenly, that it makes Nan Feng turn his head in the prince’s direction with concern. “Are you alright?”

“Does…” Xie Lian trails off, “Does anyone hear that?”

“Hear what?!”

Giggling.

Soft, high pitched—like that of a small child.

“Something is out there.”

“New Bride…”

The sound of that voice, playful, almost impish, makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand straight up.

“New Bride…”

Nan Feng’s voice echoes outside the sedan, “What is it?!”

“New Bride in the Red Bridal Sedan…”

Xie Lian swallows dryly. “Singing.”

It drifts eerily through the night, casting an uneasy tone across the scene, but…

From the reactions of everyone else, it would seem like Xie Lian is the only one meant to hear it.

“Brimming tears…past the hills…”

“Singing what?!”

“Keep your voice down!” Fu Yao snaps.

“Smile not…under the veil…”

Xie Lian’s eyes narrow slightly as the voice dissolves into maniacal giggling, “…It’s telling all passing brides to cry—and never smile.”

“It could be a trick,” Fu Yao huffs, looking around him as they walk further up the mountain.

“Just don’t do either.”

Xie Lian leans his chin on his hand, thinking. It really doesn’t matter if he laughs or cries, none have ever done him much good anyway, but…

“I’ve been smiling since I heard it,” He murmurs, to which Fu Yao squawks.

“Why?!”

“…Isn’t that what bait is supposed to do?” Xie Lian questions, surprised by the god’s sudden horror. “Are you alright?”

“Not when I’m surrounded by you two idiots…” Fu Yao grumbles, not seeing the way Xie Lian grimaces inside the sedan.

“There’s something else.”

“…What?”

The surrounding area—which, for Xie Lian, should have remained a consistent void—

It just got darker.

A lot darker.

“We just entered some sort of demonic array,” the god mutters. “Powerful, too.”

In fact—Xie Lian is almost startled by it’s strength.

It covers a much smaller area than what he saw in Gusu—but likely with greater intensity, which means…

Something is probably coming.

Xie Lian is about to warn the others, but…by then, the howling has already started.

“Wolves?! All the way out here?!”

“Not ordinary ones!”

The sedan comes to a halt before being set down abruptly, forcing Xie Lian to grip the side to steady himself on the landing.

“Just stay inside your highness!” Nan Feng snaps, his sword drawn. “We’ve got it out here!”

Xie Lian’s smile isn’t quite so fake after hearing that.

He sounds just like he used to, back when…

There’s fighting outside now, the clash of blades against beasts, snarling as the escorts that F—

Nan Feng, hired fight them off.

It’s almost reminiscent of a different time, one that’s long since passed.

“Alright out there?”

Fu Yao snaps something in the affirmative, only to cut himself off with a groan. “Oh, hell—this is why knowing we were dealing with a Savage would have been nice!”

Xie Lian blinks owlishly, the glow of his shackles eerily visible through the curtain of the sedan. “What?”

“There are Binu incoming,” Nan Feng explains with a grunt, and Xie Lian’s lips press into a firm frown.

Well, that is rather serious.

They aren’t particularly powerful, but they’re nearly impossible to kill.

“How many?”

“A…close to a hundred, maybe more!”

Xie Lian’s frown turns into a grimace.

That could mean most of the men Nan Feng hired ending up slaughtered. After all—Binu don’t kill you, they just tire you out until whatever’s hunting you dives in for it’s meal.

Still, the two deputy gods fight fiercely, the battle raging.

And for a moment, listening to it—Xie Lian can pretend that things haven’t changed.

That he’s still the spoiled child that Feng Xin needed to protect. The arrogant teenager that thought Mu Qing’s pride was silly.

And in that moment, it’s achingly pleasant.

To feel looked after. Protected. If only for the space of a few minutes, but…

He can see the points of darker energy squirming around in the dark, watches one as it grows closer, closer—probably a sight that has terrified many brides before him, hand reaching—

But this time, the figure waiting within the bridal sedan isn’t a helpless teenage girl.

Xie Lian catches the Binu with a firm grip by the wrist, shrinking back slightly as it shoves it’s way forward, his arms aching under the strain.

He took that much of a hit in Gusu?

The prince grits his teeth for a moment, closing his eye.

It’s nice sometimes, when life gives you the chance to relive memories. But that’s all they are—and it’s time to stop playing pretend.

He’s too old for that now.

“Ruoye,” he whispers gently, feeling an attentive nuzzle.

“Strangle them.”

He couldn’t explain it to anyone if he tried, but…he felt reluctant before, about using the tool in front of Nan Feng and Fu Yao, particularly the former.

The silk band slips out of the bridal sedan, then attacks with the ferocity of a whip.

/CRACK!/

Xie Lian sits back on the cushion of the sedan, listening as the spiritual weapon beats the horde back—at least enough to allow the mortals traveling with them to regroup.

“I thought—I thought you couldn’t use heavenly arms!” Fu Yao sputters, and Xie Lian smiles half heartedly.

“There are always exceptions.”

After all, Ruoye isn’t a heavenly device at all—and Xie Lian doesn’t need spiritual power to use it, because…

He closes his eyes, the inside of the bridal sedan going dark once more. “You two should take the escorts and go.”

Nan Feng recoils.

“Are you kidding?! You think we’re just going to leave you alone out here?!”

“…They can’t hurt me,” Xie Lian mumbles under his breath, his tone far away.

“What?” Fu Yao questions sharply, and the prince sighs.

“If you stay with the bridal sedan, they’ll just keep coming.”

Xie Lian mutters, listening as Ruoye continues to beat the creatures back. “If you take the others now, we can regroup.”

Fu Yao doesn’t seem willing to protest, but Nan Feng is silent, eyes wide as he watches Ruoye move through the dark, because it looks so much like…

The silk bandage the prince used to wear over his eyes, back when…

“Xie Lian.”

The sound of his name being spoken—something he hasn’t heard in centuries—and with such familiarity, makes the God’s heart squeeze in response.

“What is that thing?”

He doesn’t answer.

The silence is what worries the deputy god the most, his head whipping around to face the sedan as he raises his voice, “WHAT IS—?”

A palm presses against his chest. For once, not in an aggressive shove. Just resting there.

When he looks down, Fu Yao is staring up at him.

“Leave it.” No snide tone. Definitely not mocking him. “He has protection. It’ll be easier to help him if we take the mortals back first.”

Nan Feng grits his teeth, glancing back at the sedan, his eyes pained. “…He’ll be by himself.”

Oh.

Xie Lian’s chest aches with remorse.

Back then…he really had been so certain that sending his friend away was the best thing, but now…

How many years of guilt has he been forced to live with?

“…It’s okay,” Xie Lian reassures him softly, “I’ll be fine.”

‘I’m always by myself.’

“I’ll just wait for the groom.”

Fu Yao doesn’t wait for much more encouragement than that, walking away without another word, and Nan Feng, after a long, reluctant moment…

He huffs out a groan, balling his hands up into fists, “Men—follow me!”

And then, Xie Lian really is alone again, sitting in the dark.

The clearing grows quiet, only the wind moving through the trees in a quiet hush, Ruoye slinking back to him now that the enemy has been dealt with, wrapping back around his throat.

Xie Lian winces, and the bandage trembles apologetically.

“Oh, no…” He shushes it.

“It’s not you,” he murmurs, stroking the side of his neck until the bandage relaxes, snuggling up to him more comfortably. “Just sore.”

It’s understandable that Ruoye might think it was it’s own fault—after all, Xie Lian’s rarely ever in pain. Physically, anyway.

But right now…

Xie Lian’s been struggling today. And at first, he couldn’t have told you why.

Maybe it was because he wasn’t expecting to ascend again, particularly not when he did. He hadn’t been braced for it, and…

This time, standing in the streets of Heaven…

Xie Lian felt so lost, exposed, and…alone.

He knows what to expect from humans now. Even at it’s very worst, he knows he can handle the mortal realm.

But being in the Heavenly Capital—all it did was remind him of what he doesn’t have anymore.

Being around Nan Feng and Fu Yao—it feels good, reminds him of what it’s like, not being alone. Reminds him of how happy he was, back then.

Back when he thought he had it all, but that wasn’t true.

Because it was before he met Hong-er, so he couldn’t have had everything.

Being with them, feeling that friendship again, it made him happy—because sometimes life gives things back. Lets you relive things. Gives you second chances, but…

Xie Lian’s fingers drift up to the chain around his neck, his lips trembling.

Some things don’t come back to you.

“…” He takes a deep breath. Now isn’t the time to start feeling sorry for himself, he’s just…tired. He—

There’s a rush of wind through the clearing, ruffling the curtains of the bridal sedan—and with it, Xie Lian can hear the leaves and grass stirring in response.

/Clink!/

It’s that sound from before, Xie Lian still remembers it so clearly, but…

He leans back slightly, curling his legs closer inside the sedan, trying to catch sight of it again, and—

When he does, his breath halts in his throat.

A silver butterfly, coming through the darkness.

Xie Lian follows it’s path with his eyes, watching as it’s wings flap in an easy, lazy pattern—but instead of landing on him, this time it drifts right past, the tips of it’s wings stirring the air next to his cheek.

But—

/Clink!/

That noise—

/Clink!/

It isn’t the butterfly.

It’s—

Footsteps.

Slow, easy footsteps, almost mimicking the butterfly’s pace, but…

Xie Lian swallows hard, fighting the urge to breathe too quickly, or indicate some sort of reaction.

There’s no other heartbeat in the clearing with him. No one else breathing at all.

His hands ball up into nervous fists in his lap, and he whispers into the dark—

“Who’s there?”

His tone is a little breathier than he meant for it to be, wavering slightly, and—

There’s a chuckle in response. Soft, low in a way that rumbles in the pit of the god’s stomach.

And…bittersweet somehow, even if Xie Lian has no idea why.

There’s a stir in front of him, like someone reaching underneath the curtain, but…unlike before, when Xie Lian looks up—he doesn’t see this ugly point of darkness in the night. No menacing cloud of resentment.

When Xie Lian looks in front of him, he sees—a sea of crimson aura, one that stretches as far as his eyes can see, drifting around him in a soft, ambient glow, and, for the first time in eight centuries…

Xie Lian doesn’t see any darkness at all.

Just crimson.

And in the center of all of that, directly in front of him, is this shimmering silver light, not so different than the shade of the butterfly that came before it, but this…it’s…

Almost reminiscent of a ghost fire.

The prince’s heart slams against his ribs uncertainly.

This…

Something in Xie Lian’s heart tells him with ringing certainty—this isn’t the ghost groom. And that should frighten him, given the daunting amount of power swirling around him, but…

Xie Lian isn’t afraid. The pounding of his heart—it isn’t from fear.

He doesn’t know what this feeling is, when he reaches out—jumping slightly when he feels a palm underneath his. Larger fingers gently enveloping his own, skin ice cold.

There’s something wrapped around the stranger’s ring finger, Xie Lian can feel that—

A silk string.

Reminiscent of the threads he’s worked with countless times.

His palm is rougher than Xie Lian’s—somewhat calloused around the thumb and the inside of his index finger—

A sword weirder then. Likely sabers.

Xie Lian couldn’t tell you why he can barely breathe.

He couldn’t explain the sudden rush of goosebumps, starting at the back of his neck, then rushing all the way down his arms, creeping over his scalp as he lets out a full body shiver.

But it isn’t fear.

Even as that hand starts to gently pull him from the sedan…there’s no fear

He doesn’t even make an attempt to resist, allowing himself to be guided forward—until his foot catches against the lip of the step down, making him stumble forward, bracing himself, but—

Someone catches him.

Xie Lian finds himself clinging to that hand, his face…

It’s pressed into the front of someone’s robe’s against their chest—solid, but no heartbeat underneath his cheek to indicate some sign of life, but—

There’s another hand, feather light as it cups the back of his head—stroking his hair.

Xie Lian sucks in a shuddering breath, and when he does—

He’s hit with the smell of the forest.

Fresh, clean, but with a slight wildness to it that makes his heart age with memory, like a glass on the edge of shattering—

‘You’re in a forest,’ the god scolds himself silently.

‘Of course it smells like him.’

Finally, he has the sense to straighten to his feet once more, and…

Xie Lian can’t remember the last time someone guided him with such care. One hand on his elbow, the other on the small of his back.

The grip on him is gentle—but there’s never even a possibility of him falling. And even if there was—

The forest floor is surprisingly smooth, devoid of any rocks or tree roots to stumble upon.

(He doesn’t see the way the very earth itself shrinks under a crimson tinted gaze.)

Whatever this figure might want, whatever it’s intentions are—Xie Lian finds himself too shaken, almost spellbound at the moment to give the mater deeper thought—

He simply guides Xie Lian down the forest path, silver bells gently marking out their pace in the night.

/Clink!/

Something about the sound of silver bells makes his heart ache, like a muscle left pleasantly sore.

Reminds him of a parent ringing a chime near the front gate, calling a child home.

His pace is slow, but certain—and instinctively, Xie Lian knows this creature is ancient.

Maybe as old as him. But—

There’s a boyish lilt to his gait, a lightness that makes him seem younger than that.

Xie Lian’s fingers tighten almost imperceptibly, and he shivers when he feels that ice-like hand grip him closer in response.

‘Who are you?’

Could he be the groom?

Xie Lian doesn’t think so.

If he was, he wouldn’t need a horde of wolves or Binu to steal a bride away. His aura is so potent, he makes Wen Jiao look like a gnat. Even the light of the heavens seems dull now, compared to this sea of ruby-tinged light.

Butterflies occasionally slip past their ankles, lighting the way ahead.

Xie Lian’s veil rustles slightly when he twists his head around to watch them, a soft smile on his lips.

He doesn’t feel the gaze that’s watching him. Too swept up to feel the overwhelming weight of it.

And even if he wasn’t so powerful—Xie Lian has the sense that any bride would go with this young man willingly.

He may not be able to see his face, but….he doesn’t need to, to know that whatever mask this figure wears must be rather attractive.

So no, this isn’t the groom.

But then…why did he come for the bride?

Xie Lian jumps a little when he senses movement to his left, only to hear the soft rustling of something being opened up and lifted over his head, the quiet patter of drops falling down.

Is it…raining?

It doesn’t smell like rain.

Near him, it does. When he turns his head into the arm of the stranger beside him, he smells forest and rain and the end of summer—

But ahead of him, in that crimson haze, he smells iron.

Still—not a single drop of it touches him. Doesn’t even brush against his slippers.

The wolves from before seem to cringe away as they approach—and when Xie Lian feels the array intensify, as if they’re reaching the center of it—

There’s a sharp crunch underneath the young man’s boot, and any darkness that remains dissipates.

Xie Lian’s breath catches.

That array wasn’t as powerful as the one in Gusu—but clearly made from some form of bone remains.

Old, powerful magic—not easily broken. And…

He could really do that with just the weight of his foot?

Xie Lian never thought of himself as someone that was drawn to power before.

He never needed to be. From the moment Xie Lian was born, he was strong. It wasn’t until he was older that he learned what it felt like to be weak.

But he’s always been attracted to strength. At first, because he craved an equal. And later, when he became weak…

There were quiet, shameful moments when Xie Lian would pray for someone to save him.

Never once did he ever receive an answer.

It feels like they’re descending the mountainside now, and Xie Lian knows he should be thinking about where the ghost might be taking him, but…

All he can remember now, with an amused little smile, is something that he used to say, because when he was someone else.

The easiest ways to segment memories is to put them behind you, and pretend they happened to someone else.

It isn’t sad, remembering things that way.

There was a general once, who used to tell stories to a little girl in front of a campfire. Whispering tales and singing songs until she fell asleep, safe, if only for another night.

But one story was always her favorite—

That of the Bridegroom.

A tale of wishful thinking on Xie Lian’s part. Desperately wishing to pretend that something wasn’t lost forever. That something he loved so dearly wasn’t truly lost. That it could come back, one day.

But that was just wishful pretending, and now…Xie Lian feels…

Hope.

The most stubborn emotion there is. The one that has caused him the most pain, over such a long life.

He smells like him. He—the way he’s guiding him. The way Xie Lian’s heart is beating, in a way he never thought it would again—

There’s a desperate, irrational spark of hope.

They come to a stop at the foot of the mountain, the umbrella being pulled just once more, and…

Xie Lian’s fingers are trembling.

The hand holding them tightens reassuringly, and that hope only builds. Smoldering, like a long forgotten ember flickering back to life.

The young man turns, as if to face him—and when Xie Lian feels another hand lifting up his bridal veil, he makes no move to stop it.

Anyone else, in any other moment—and he may have.

But not now.

Ice cold fingertips brush against his cheek, then his jaw.

Xie Lian can’t breathe. He’s forgotten how.

The only thing he can do now, is the only thing that he’s ever done.

Whisper that word, that question, that prayer—into the swirling unknown all around him. Just one word—and yet somehow, saying it feels like begging.

“…Hong-er?”

Fate is cruel.

Fairytales are often sadistic by nature.

Because if Xie Lian could have seen the young man’s face, he would have known.

In a moment, without him having to say another word, the prince would have known.

Because his expression is one of utter agony.

Fighting. Fighting so hard, that Xie Lian can see that aura around him tremble and twist, but he doesn’t understand why. It’s not a ghost fire. It has a body Xie Lian heard him laugh before.

He can speak, he just—

He just won’t.

That’s what he thinks, anyway.

He doesn’t know that the ghost before him is straining until blood bubbles up in the back of his throat, nearly ripping his entire spirit apart, just trying to say one word. Just /one./

‘Yes.’

And he’s forced to watch now, as the hope in Xie Lian’s eyes slowly dies.

Hong-er would answer him. Xie Lian knows that.

He’s gone through every method to contact him in this life and the next—and if Hong-er was here, if he was really, physically here—

He would answer. Xie Lian knows that he would.

And after going so long feeling hopeless—feeling it again, that rising rush of euphoria, only to come crashing back down—

Xie Lian has tears in his eyes.

He feels raw, open, and vulnerable.

So lost, and—and—

The hand that pushed up his veil drifts down now, reaching for…

The chain around Xie Lian’s neck.

The god’s eyes narrow sharply, and his reaction is instant.

First, he bats that hand out of the way, and without his even needing to say a word, Ruoye lashes out.

But it never actually lands on anything solid.

In that moment, the sea of crimson around him explodes in a flash of light, making Xie Lian cringe with surprise, wrapping his arms around his head for cover, but—

There’s no pain. No violent force. Just a soft rush of wind, and the fluttering of…

He peeks one eye open.

There isn’t just one or two butterflies now—

Xie Lian is surrounded by them.

Their wings gently brushing against his skin as they swoop up into the air, floating high up into the sky before disappearing in a rush.

Tears slip down his cheeks, his face illuminated in a silver glow as he tips his head back, the veil slipping the rest of the way off of his head.

His breaths are shaky and deep, gulping in the cool night air.

It’s been eight centuries, since Xie Lian saw the stars.

This is the closest that he’s come to seeing them again since.

If only it didn’t feel so…so…

(It hurts.)

He clutches the ring around his neck, fighting to steady his breath, but then Xie Lian notices something:

The aching in his throat his gone.

Even when he reaches under the sleeves of his dress, probing at the bandages on his arms…

Those cuts have disappeared.

But how on earth…?

/Clink!/

He whips his head around, all too familiar with the sound now, and once again—

A butterfly leads the way through the dark.

Whatever that person was—he wasn’t the ghost groom.

And he—

Xie Lian gulps, forcing himself to calm down, clutching the chain around his neck even tighter.

He wasn’t Hong-er either.

But he led Xie Lian down the mountain safely, and now…

It’s like he’s trying to guide him.

Slowly, the prince starts to follow it down the path, and when he reaches the destination…

Xie Lian presses his hand against the temple door, making a face when he feels the name on the entrance plaque.

“If I ever see another Ming Guang temple after this…” He mutters.

It’ll be too soon.

He probably should feel bad for the general at this point, but he can’t seem to bring himself to.

The first thing that hits him is the heavy, dark aura—toxic to mortals, and…

Now this—this is the lair of a savage ghost.

Xie Lian finds the missing brides.

There’s a private room in Ghost City, far within the depths of paradise manner, that only two ghost are allowed to entire.

The first, being the Ghost King, Crimson Rain Sought Flower.

And the second being the one who, by now, has known him longer than almost anyone.

Autumn Twilight Shrouding Forests, the savage ghost Ren Song.

But that was a name mortals gave him only recently, after the death of his elder brother.

To Hua Cheng, he’s still barely more than the child he found eight centuries ago, crying on the mountainside—

Shuo.

He stands outside of that door now, listening.

Ghost Kings don’t weep. That comes before. Shuo knows.

They howl.

That’s what he hears on the other side of that door now.

Anguished howling. The sounds of crashing and breaking. Rage, grief, and sadness.

A trapped animal.

Shuo has stood before this door many times. Often as a small child, stuffed animal dangling from one hand, the other clutching his older brother’s hand.

Yanlin on the other side of them, staring at the lock resentfully.

Keeping them outside, rarely letting them in.

Now, Shuo is the only one left standing, a lonely figure at the end of a long hallway.

This was the room where Yanlin explained her little habit of spreading rumors, the one that led to Hua Cheng earning the title of Crimson Rain Sought Flower.

This was the place where the ghost king brought Shuo and his siblings, when Xiang and Fai died.

Bao never cried, only sat to the side and leaned against the Ghost King’s arm.

Yanlin wept the loudest, and Shuo…

He cried silently, for the first time struck by…

Real loss.

Shuo and his brother died on the same day. Bao was beside him, when he woke up on the fields of Mount Tonglu.

Even when Lang Ying took them, and they were separated—when Shuo cried out for help—

A god brought his brother back to him.

It was only then, when that same god was saying that there was nothing that he could do to save the men who helped raise him, that Shuo realized what grief felt like.

He stayed awake the longest that night, longer than even Hua Cheng, watching the naked sadness on his face.

And in that night, Shuo heard something that he never told anyone. Not Yanlin, not Bao, not in the centuries that followed.

He never even asked Hua Cheng what it meant. Knew better to.

The ghost king never sleeps in front of anyone else for a reason.

Shuo heard him whisper a name with a softness that he had never heard from Hua Cheng before, and has never heard from him since. An aching longing that ran so deep, it frightened the boy. He couldn’t understand it.

“Xie Lian.”

And now, the ghost knows why.

He thinks he does.

He stands there quietly, waiting until the crashing and the snarling reaches a more manageable volume.

Everyone else has fled paradise manor in a quiet hush. Even Yin Yu has taken to patrolling the city, rather than seeing this.

It takes time, but the roar dulls to a growl.

Shuo isn’t afraid of Hua Cheng, and he never has been.

He owes the spirit his life, and if he ever decides to take it—Shuo will accept it.

He lifts his hand, and he knocks, hearing an angry, almost animalistic snarl in response.

The ghost sighs.

“Gege, it’s me.”

The menacing aura doesn’t exactly lesson, but…

Shuo opens the door none the less, not surprised to find that the lock has been broken.

What waits inside is a swirling disaster of magic. So potent, it would stop the heart of any mortal that stepped inside.

Hua Cheng glances back over his shoulder, eyes burning red in the candlelight, looking Shuo over with barely coherent annoyance.

He’s half-mad with grief, Shuo can see it.

Violent bursts of energy shatter the items and furniture in the room, only to bind them back together.

Angry red sparks fill the air as the space around him shatters then rebuilds, over and over, in a bitter, self-destructive cycle.

“Why are you wearing that form?”

Most ghosts can’t change their appearances—not effectively.

Only Hua Cheng and He Xuan can do so flawlessly.

But Ren Song has been practicing, and while he isn’t flawless, he’s gotten rather good at it.

Now, he looks like a boy of only eight years old, with dark hair and grey eyes, watching Hua Cheng with a solemn expression.

Not so different from the child he found on Mount Tonglu.

“I thought it made you less likely to incinerate me,” the boy replies easily, rocking on his heels.

He knows how to deal with Hua Cheng by now. Know that the ghost king won’t allow comfort—will lash out with ferocity at any attempt.

“If you were that concerned, why knock?”

Shuo doesn’t offer him kind words, knows that they mean nothing to Hua Cheng. Instead, he gives him something else, something that he craves.

Knowledge, a sense of control over the situation.

That’s how you comfort Hua Cheng.

“You were right—Qi Rong was behind the scheme.”

His eyes flash slightly in the dark, and Shuo continues, “It was his array. I’m sure you realized that when you saw the trees.”

Of course he did, and the fact that Xie Lian almost saw that…

Hua Cheng grits his teeth, turning away once more.

“Was he dealt with?”

“Mostly,” Shuo murmurs. He speaks with such calm confidence, even in a child’s form, clasping his hands behind his back—as he’s seen Hua Cheng do many times before. “After you destroyed the array, I went to his location—I seriously damaged him, but he fled to escape capture.”

That makes sense.

Aside from Hua Cheng, Qi Rong has little reason to fear the other ghosts of the underworld. He’s ancient and powerful in his own right—and Blackwater is hardly involved enough in ghostly matters to be a threat.

But he does fear Ren Song, as he should.

After he dispersed Bao, Shuo’s resentment increased suddenly, with a burning level of power—and when it did, it was with one intent—

Vengeance.

But Shuo has never killed Qi Rong, even though he’s had the opportunity to do so many times, and Hua Cheng has given his permission.

Shuo plays with him. Like a cat that relishes in taunting it’s meal, batting an angry rat between it’s paws.

And his magic was developed with one thing in mind:

Torturing a ghost that desperately wants to escape his own inferiority.

Naturally, Qi Rong flees on sight.

Shuo bows his head in apology. “My array wasn’t as effective as usual. It won’t happen again.”

Hua Cheng doesn’t respond to that immediately, wrapping his arms around himself.

He knows it was his own fault. That he was too distracted by Xie Lian to focus on surprising his aura.

It was overpowering the entire area. The fact that Ren Song could even cast the spell was impressive, but it had no chance of working effectively, even when Hua Cheng crushed Qi Rong’s magic on the way down the mountain.

“Do you know his level of involvement?”

“He increased the power level of the ghost in question,” Shuo shrugs. “Apparently she’s been relatively irrelevant up until now.”

Hua Cheng’s arms tighten around himself, and he still doesn’t look back at the boy. “You don’t sound like a fan.”

“I’m not,” the boy admits.

Instead of explaining any further, he simply asks, “Would you like me or Yin Yu to monitor the prince?”

“…No,” Hua Cheng mutters, fiddling with something in his hair. “That won’t be necessary.”

There’s a butterfly tailing him now, Hua Cheng knows exactly where he is.

“Focus on finding Qi Rong again,” the ghost king orders, “Yin Yu has his own assignments.”

Shuo bows his head quietly in agreement, and…there’s so much he wants to ask, so much that’s gnawing at him, but…

He knows his place.

“Yes, Hua Chengzhu.”

He leaves the room, shutting the door without another word. There’s no more snarling and howling now—just the quiet out of Hua Cheng quietly self destructing then reconstructing, over and over again, in the confines of that room.

Now, Shuo switches into a new skin.

His body growing as he walks down the halls of paradise manor, stretching with each step until he’s the size of a teenager, hair pulled up in a high ponytail, with a slide curl to it’s texture.

His robes are black, trimmed with emerald thread.

He carries no sword—he never has.

There are two leather holsters on each of his thighs, each holding a dagger, but no one has ever seen them drawn.

Only two ghosts in the underworld wear armor—their Kings, Hua Cheng and He Xuan. One with silver vambraces, the other with golden scaled mail.

Qi Rong pretends.

He has this ridiculous breastplate cobbled together from the finest mortal metals that he covers in paint, and calls a spiritual device.

Shuo has taken great delight in breaking it several times over, watching the ghost have a new set made and insist, this time, that it’s real.

But very few things in the Ghost Realm ever are.

In all honesty—Shuo was raised by a Ghost King, but he couldn’t tell you if he had ever actually seen Hua Cheng’s face.

Even now, the mask Shuo wears isn’t his own—it’s that of Autumn Twilight Shrouding Forests.

The savage ghost Ren Song is known for many things. Androgyny, illusion, and fear—but two features always remain the same.

The first, being his eyes. One a deep, pine green—the other burning like a forest set aflame.

And the second, being the choker that sits around his neck.

The metal is black, with an emerald set in the face—made from hell-burned steel and gemstone, and…the ashes are his own.

He asked Hua Cheng that once. If his ashes were somewhere safe. His answer always baffled Shuo.

That if the place where he hid them was destroyed…

He wouldn’t need to exist anymore.

Ren Song can’t imagine that. He’s never felt safer than he does with his ashes against his own skin.

When he steps into the streets—he catches ghosts stopping and staring, like they want to ask.

Everyone heard the initial roar, after all.

But there’s a distance between the protégé of Crimson Rain Sought Flower and the citizens of Ghost City. A barrier they know better than to cross.

“What are you staring at?” He questions coldly, raising one eyebrow.

No one can keep eye contact for long.

Shuo keeps walking.

Only Yin Yu stops him before he reaches the city gates, resting a hand against the ghost’s arm. “Did he say much to you?”

Ren Song stares at him quietly, slightly less hostile—but he shakes his head. “I would leave him alone. Actually—I’d expect him to be gone again soon.”

Because now, he knows who Xie Lian is. And the reason for Hua Cheng searching for this long—it seems somewhat obvious now.

So, he won’t stay away for long.

Yin Yu seems exhausted by the prospect. “…With the ghost festival coming up?”

Ren Song is almost sympathetic.

“I’m off on assignment now, so you’ll be doing all of that by yourself.”

Yin Yu presses his face into his hands, and he probably won’t lift his head again until he finds a pillow to scream into, knowing him.

He definitely isn’t getting the raise this year, that’s obvious.

Shuo slips out of the gates to the city, making his way to the closest forest.

Hua Cheng has his domain, Blackwater has his.

Ren Song’s is the smallest, not comparable to a calamity—but quite substantial, for a ghost of his rank.

He presses a palm against a nearby evergreen, eyes burning unnaturally bright in the dark.

The forest trembles, ancient wood groaning and creaking until, eventually, it forms a path.

Eventually, if Ren Song follows long enough, he’ll find his target.

The trees swallow the path behind him as he walks forward, and the track is set.

Back in Paradise Manor, Hua Cheng hasn’t moved since the boy left.

His eyes staring at one thing.

The mirror.

Constantly cracking and reforming, over and over again.

Each time it does, there’s a new face looking back at him.

His true form. The skin he wore for Qin Meirong. The face of Hua Bolin, the one that the Shi brothers knew.

The Bestial Form he took on while fighting in Mount Tonglu.

The middle aged face he once showed Jiang Chi.

He gave himself the name Zhang Wei, back then.

When he sees the white mask of Wu Ming, the mirror shatters a little more violently as the ghost curls in on himself, hands in his hair.

Eight hundred years.

After eight hundred years, Hua Cheng thought…

He had some delusional hope that, with how vast his strength had become, he cold break through. That he’d be able to answer.

But he was a fool. An arrogant, hopeful fool.

And he made his love cry again.

Hua Cheng trembles, tearing at his hair.

Useless. He’s so fucking—!

He screams again, rage erupting from him as he throws his head back, feeling as though he could breathe fire.

And he actually does, leaving a burning hole in the ceiling, one that quickly disappears under his glare, only small swirls of smoke remaining.

When he looks back to the mirror again, a familiar face stares back at him.

Small, filthy, and hateful.

Hong-er.

His arms tighten around his knees as he glares at the glass, spiritual power crackling angrily around him.

“I hate you,” he growls, nails clawing at his shins.

He never realized that it was possible to be jealous of yourself. Of a past version of you, one that had the things you crave so badly now.

Because that’s the face Xie Lian misses. That’s the name he calls out to.

And Hua Cheng has been robbed of his name for so long…

It almost feels like someone else. Like the person Xie Lian is mourning for isn’t him.

Hua Cheng knows his past, aches from hit, but it’s also been stripped away from him, leaving him incapable of taking it back.

What is he supposed to do, now?

Before, he always knew.

It was always about getting back to his god. Protecting him. Hua Cheng knows he’s more than capable of doing that now, but…

He presses his face against his knees, and he hears Zhao Beitong’s voice, from all those years ago:

‘You’re still mourning the life you could have had.’

Maybe that’s true, because now, Hua Cheng is realizing—

He can return to Xie Lian’s side now, but…at least for the time being, he can’t do so as Hong-er.

He managed that before, as Wu Ming. But Xie Lian’s needs were different then. The ghost fit into his revenge plans easily.

But how could he justify showing up as Hua Cheng?

He always assumed that, if Xie Lian knew who he was—he would accept him as he is now.

But he doesn’t know, and—

And that means that he’ll have to find another way to get close. To fit himself back into Xie Lian’s life.

To make the prince care for him again, if that’s even possible.

Eventually, he’ll find a way to break the curse, but until then…

The ghost clenches his teeth, forcing himself to sharpen his emotions—to stop feeling sorry for himself, making them into something useful.

His gaze drifts back to the mirror once more.

He picks a new face for himself. Flickering through countless options. Different ages, genders, varying degrees of beauty.

Not that Xie Lian can see them for now, but—he will, one day.

Hua Cheng presses his palm against the glass.

His breathing steadies, and his gaze slowly becomes determined.

He knows what he’s going to do next. The goal hasn’t changed, just the method.

He’s going to make his way back to Xie Lian’s side. Even if the prince doesn’t know that Hua Cheng is protecting him.

When did he become so weak?

He settles on a new face, his eyes narrowed as he stares at himself, palms pressed against the mirror.

Hua Cheng has never expected anything from his god. Has never prayed with the expectation or need that someone would answer.

That was never why he worshipped before.

And that hasn’t changed now.

Even if he can’t have everything he wants from his god, even if he only manages to find a way to stand beside him, or even just close to him—

That’s enough of a reason to linger on in this world.

Always.

On Mount Yu Jun, Xie Lian is experiencing growing exasperation, his arms crossed over his chest as he deals with a crowd of conflicted, angry men.

“Wh—What do you MEAN you’re a man?!” One of them moans, kneeling down and clutching his head.

“I’m sorry,” Xie Lian replies dryly.

“I can see that this experience has clearly been a revelation for you.”

“I-It hasn’t!” The man sputters, leaping to his feet. “I’m fine! I-I was just confused, that’s all! You look just like a—”

“Delicate featured man in a dress?”

“NO!”

He wails, “No, you’re clearly in disguise, it wasn’t my fault!”

That might be the case, but Xie Lian isn’t in the mood to comfort someone that is horrified and disgusted over being attracted to him. “In any case, all of you need to leave.”

He steps in front of Xiao Ying protectively, crossing his arms.

The young woman followed them to the shrine to make sure they were alright—only to catch the ire of the men who were after the bounty on the ghost groom to begin with.

“This place isn’t safe for any of you.”

“You’re just trying to scare us off so you can get the bounty for yourself!” One of the men snaps. “You expect us to believe a word you say?!”

“Besides, that brat is working with the ghost groom—everyone knows it! That’s why she always gets in the way!”

“I’m not!”

Xiao Ying clings to the back of Xie Lian’s dress pleadingly, “I swear I’m not!”

“She’s always helping that little FREAK that lives on the mountain! He’s probably the groom!”

Xie Lian highly doubts that. Just from what Nan Feng said—the Ghost Groom wouldn’t leave a witness.

“I doubt a ghost with such blood thirst has any plan on socializing with humans,” Xie Lian shakes his head, his voice firm. “In any case, I already encountered the ghost, and it’s a black fog. Nothing like you described.”

“How would you even know?” One of them sneers.

“It’s not like you can see it!”

“I’m a Taoist,” Xie Lian shrugs. “I can sense demonic energy, and there isn’t any coming from her, and what attacked me before didn’t take a form that matches your description. Now, please—”

“You really think we’re just gonna!”

/BOOM!/

There’s the sound of a nearby tree cracking by the trunk, and Xie Lian smiles.

Ah, Nan Feng and Fu Yao have caught up.

“Are you serious?” Fu Yao sighs, staring at the now deceased cedar, rubbing the side of his neck. “Do you always have to do that?”

Nan Feng frowns. “What?”

“Every time,” Fu Yao grumbles, and Xie Lian raises, an eyebrow, “Every time we go on assignment, you always have to find an excuse to smash a tree to show everyone what a big strong man you are.”

Do the work together often?

Xie Lian’s glad to hear that, actually.

“I do not!”

“Yes, you do!” Fu Yao throws his hands up, rounding on him. “And it’s always a tree! At LEAST up the ante and smash a wall or something? You’re like a guy that only knows how to do missionary!”

Missionary? Is that a martial art style? Xie Lian hasn’t heard of it.

“Trees are just usually available?!” Nan Feng glares, defensive, “Why do you care so much?!”

“Because,” Fu Yao half yells, half whispers, clutching his temples with frustration. “You literally crushed a tree in front of the SAME group of guys YESTERDAY!”

Well—he has a point.

“They ALREADY know you can crush a tree!” Fu Yao huffs, “Leave the local flora alone!”

“FINE!” Nan Feng grits his teeth, leaning over him with a huff, “I’ll just split YOU in half next time!”

Xie Lian is just waiting for them to get it all out, twiddling his thumbs.

He notices they get oddly quiet for a moment, but he can’t see the way Nan Feng’s anger fades into clear embarrassment, his face going red all the way up to his ears, and Fu Yao goes from blinking with astonishment to…

Looking like the cat that’s caught the canary.

“I’d probably handle it better than the tree,” he comments airily, and the color of Nan Feng’s cheeks darkens even further.

He’s literally been begging him to shut up inside the private communication array for the last thirty seconds, at least. Well.

Demanding more than begging

But after a few seconds of Fu Yao snickering at his expense, he’s had enough.

To the men watching, it looks like they’re just glaring at each other.

Xie Lian presumes they might be having a stare down, they used to do that often. And arm wrestling.

Feng Xin always won, so Mu Qing got irritated and suggested seeing who could hold their breath the longest—but Xie Lian had to put a stop to that when the servant cheated by breathing through his nose, cackling when the prince’s bodyguard fainted during a feast.

So, he assumes it’s probably just something like that, and it’s better just to let them get it out instead of getting in the middle. If he does, they’ll just snap and yell all night—and at the moment, they aren’t saying anything too hurtful.

What he does not know, is that Fu Yao’s smirk is slowly fading, turning into a horrified, scandalized blush, while Nan Feng makes strong eye contact with him.

But even if he did, it wouldn’t make sense, because, y’know—

Private Communication Arrays and all that.

And it’s while the two of them are /thoroughly/ distracted that one of the men in the crowd cries out,

“Hey, look! I see the little monster! He’s hiding in the bushes!”

“Leave him alone!” Xiao Ying cries out, trying to grab their leader by the arm—only to get shoved aside.

Xie Lian manages to catch her before she hits the ground, and he hears the sound of footsteps—probably the young man they’ve been referring to—fleeing back into the woods, and the men from the village charging after him.

And then he remembers…that’s where they…

The man who pretended to be the ghost groom…when they were walking…the smell of blood, and the array, it—

“Wait!” Xie Lian cries out, “Don’t go in there!”

But…it’s already too late.

Nan Feng clears his throat, “Is something wrong, your highness? Didn’t you come that way?”

Xie Lian opens his mouth to explain, but—then he hears the men who just took off start shrieking, and what they’re saying—

“Oh god, get back! There are bodies!”

“Hanging in the trees!”

—it makes his blood run cold.

“All the blood is coming down!”

Oh.

A violent shiver runs down Xie Lian’s spine as he fumbles for his hand, grasping it tightly to stop it from shaking.

He—

Hanging bodies—

A heavy, warm hand lands on his shoulder, steadying him, and Xie Lian lets out a shaky breath.

“I’m alright, Nan Feng,” he mutters.

“Thank you.”

The Deputy god nods, looking over Xie Lian’s shoulder and into the forest. “…The Night Touring Green Lantern,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Is he allied to the ghost groom, you think? That could be a problem.”

Xie Lian tilts his head curiously.

“What are you talking about?”

“He’s a powerful ghost,” Fu Yao finally speaks up, his voice a little higher pitched than before—and sulking in it’s tone. “Nearly a Calamity. His trademark is hanging dead bodies from trees to make blood rain down.”

Xie Lian finds himself wracked with nausea.

Does that mean…he was walking under them, the entire time?

He claps one hand over his mouth, his face growing pale.

And he didn’t know?

Nan Feng watches him with growing concern. “Is there more than what you’re telling us?”

He can see the prince’s distress—but he misinterprets the reason. “You came that way, did you see anything?”

Slowly, Xie Lian lowers his hand from his mouth.

“…I did see someone,” he admits, somewhat hesitantly. “He was…strange.”

And likely an extremely powerful ghost.

“He was able to smash the magical array shrouding the mountain with just his foot,” Xie Lian remembers the crunch of it, it still echoes in his ears now. “And none of the other defenses seemed to phase him. But…he didn’t try to hurt me in any way.”

Actually…in retrospect…Xie Lian is actually pretty sure that the ghost healed some of his injuries, which…leaves the prince slightly mortified at the way he behaved. He would apologize if he could, but…

“Do you think that could have been the Night Touring Green Lantern?”

If he did something that gruesome, Xie Lian doesn’t think he actually wants to apologize. Not if he…he was walking under—

“It’s hard to say, walking a blind man down the mountain isn’t exactly his style,” Fu Yao glances up into the forest, frowning at the corpses.

“Did he say anything?”

“…No,” Xie Lian shakes his head. “But…there butterflies. Silver butterflies. They must have been made from spiritual power, because I was able to see them—”

He stops when he feels the other two go stiff with fear.

“…What?”

“This…is bad.”

Xie Lian blinks with confusion.

What’s so bad about butterflies?

“Why?”

“Wraith Butterflies…” Fu Yao trails off, looking at Nan Feng. “They mean this is way beyond anything we can deal with. We need to go back to Heaven now and get reinforcements.”

Wraith Butterflies?

Is that what they’re called? Xie Lian thinks the name is kind of nice, actually. Eerie, but…pretty.

“I can’t leave these people here if that’s the case,” Xie Lian mutters, shaking his head, “But if it really is that much of a problem—you go on and bring back help for us.”

Fu Yao seems to hesitate—and for a moment, Nan Feng looks almost sympathetic, but Xie Lian is firm.

“If it’s that serious, then more people could get hurt. We don’t have anymore time to waste. Meet us back at the Ming Guang temple.”

He glances over to Nan Feng.

“Lend me some spiritual power?”

The god offers his hand without hesitation, but he’s clearly a little confused. “Why?”

Xie Lian shrugs, glancing down at himself.

He can see the outline of his hand now, filled with that same earthy aura from before.

His hands look like that?

He shakes his head with a sigh, walking back towards the temple, Nan Feng walking close beside him. “You’ll see.”

Xiao Ying—who has snuck the bandaged young man (who crept out of the woods during the screaming) with her, follows after them, explaining that the child is harmless.

Maimed an unable to communicate—but he’s never hurt anyone from the village, and it’s unlikely that he ever would.

The prince nods, indicating for them to stay back once they get closer to the temple, and Nan Feng takes him by the elbow. “What is it that you aren’t telling me?”

“…” the Prince stares up at him, shackle glowing dimly. “What do you mean?”

“Back there, in the forest—” Nan Feng’s voice is so tense with worry, “Something frightened you, and it wasn’t the butterflies.”

Xie Lian’s jaw tightens. “Now isn’t the time to discuss it.”

It requires explaining so much that…requires far more mental energy than what Xie Lian possesses at the moment. Not only that, but..

Xie Lian would tell Feng Xin those things, not Nan Feng—and as long as they’re pretending like this, he…

“…I just want to keep you safe, your highness,” Nan Feng’s voice isn’t harsh now, and neither is the grip on his arm, it’s—

He’s always been so rough with everyone else—but with him, only with him—there’s a gentleness.

Even—

Even after this long.

Xie Lian’s lips tremble.

“…I just had a bad experience once,” he explains carefully.

Well. Multiple times. But he doesn’t need to explain that right now.

“Hanging bodies…upset me.”

Nan Feng grimaces. If he had known that, he would have tried to keep the prince from finding out about them.

“…Before we go on,” the deputy god continues, maintaining that gentle but firm grip on the prince’s arm. “Can I ask you something else?”

Normally, Xie Lian would say it could wait, but…

Nan Feng intentionally waited until they were alone to bring it up, so he nods.

“What is it?”

They’re still walking now, slowly growing closer to the temple, and Nan Feng clears his throat.

“…Centuries ago, a god ascended and came to my general for…help, adjusting to the heavens.”

Xie Lian smiles faintly.

He actually did it, then.

That makes him happy.

“And did he help?’

Nan Feng nods quickly, “Of course—but the new god…told my general something only you would have known. And he was wondering…or, I mean…he mentioned…” He struggles, stumbling over his words—but Xie Lian’s tone is gentle.

“Mentioned what?”

“…He wondered why you sent the new god to him,” Nan Feng mumbles, his ears a little hot.

Oh. Well—the answer to that is simple enough.

“Because I knew Feng Xin would be a good influence on him,” Xie Lian explains. “And that he would keep him out of trouble.”

That makes Nan Feng grow quiet for a few moments, fighting up the nerve to ask, “He also said that you—”

“Something’s wrong,” Xie Lian cuts him off, holding up a hand to silence him.

They’re standing in the middle of the courtyard leading into the temple, but…

Oh no.

He can already sense that the inside is empty.

“They moved them,” Xie Lian mutters, his brow furrowed with irritation.

“Moved who?”

“The brides, probably to get payment from their families,” the prince rubs his temples. “And the minute those veils come off, we’re in trouble.”

“Does this have something to do with what you said about knowing more about the groom’s identity?” Nan Feng questions, and the god nods.

“I already told Fu Yao about this before, but…I’ve spent a lot of time around weddings in the past,” he explains.

“And this is all so targeted towards Ming Guang…after all, we heard before—all of his temples in the area have been burned down besides this one, which was sitting behind a magical barrier, and the ghost’s behavior…jealous, vindictive, possessive…it’s much more like…”

Shrieking echoes down the hill, and it’s clear—the fighting has already begun.

“…A bride.”

Nan Feng grimaces from beside him. “And there are seventeen of them.”

“Eighteen,” the prince corrects his friend. “If you count the one behind all of this.”

Xie Lian is tired.

That’s the only thing he can think of, darting around the temple, barely managing to doge attacks from the possessed bodies of the diseased brides, throwing veils over their heads.

He hasn’t actually slept since Gusu, and with his powers sealed…

It creates strain and wear.

Taking some spiritual powers from Nan Feng did help, to some extent—he’s able to use Ruoye more effectively, casting the weapon out over a wider area, and he can actually use the communication array, a rare luxury.

‘Ling Wen? Can you hear me?’

‘Yes, your highness?’

‘I have a question that’s going to sound oddly specific, but…’

Xie Lian backflips off of the temple roof, throwing a veil onto yet another bride.

‘Has Ming Guang ever been in a romantic relationship with a jealous partner?’

There’s a long pause.

‘I don’t mean to pry, but—’

‘Past or present?’

Xie Lian is so confused by the question, he nearly misses his landing. ‘Pardon?’

‘In Ming Guang’s case, you’re going to have to be rather specific, your highness,’ Ling Wen explains flatly. ‘There are many possibilities.’

Xie Lian flushes slightly.

Oh.

‘It would be a woman from at least a few centuries ago,’ he explains. ‘She would have to be willful, violent—and extremely jealous and possessive. Obsessed with General Pei.’

‘That actually does narrow it down,’ Ling Wen muses with a sigh.

‘With only two exceptions that I’m aware of, Pei usually goes for weaker partners, and only one of them could fit your description.’

Xie Lian covers two more brides, rushing down into the courtyard, using Ruoye to make a protective barrier for Xiao Ying and the other villagers.

‘And who would that be?’

‘Did the ghost show signs of a limp?’

Xie Lian hesitates, thinking back on the noises he heard, when fighting that black cloud in Ming Guang’s temple.

‘…yes, it did.’

‘I thought so.’ Ling Wen’s voice turns grim. ‘Then it could only be Xuan Ji’

Xuan Ji?

‘She was a general from an enemy nation that Pei captured, then released. But they met so frequently in battle—eventually, they became lovers.’

‘…That’s actually rather romantic,’ Xie Lian admits.

Nine brides are down now, eight more to go.

The idea of admiring an opponent’s strength on the battlefield, and then eventually becoming intimate with them…it’s undoubtably appealing. Xie Lian can see the temptation of it.

‘I suppose,’ Ling Wen agrees. ‘But eventually, Xuan Ji became attached, and wanted commitment.’

Xie Lian frowns, veiling yet another bride, barely dodging an attack from another as he listens to Nan Feng dealing with the enemies outside the temple grounds. ‘Is that a bad thing?’

Isn’t commitment the point of being in that sort of relationship?

‘For Pei? Yes, it is.’

Ling Wen seems emphatic on that point. ‘He’s an infamous philanderer. He’s never been one to become attached to his partners, and despises the idea of marriage.’

Well. That explains the bitterness surrounding brides.

‘From what I understand, their separation turned ugly.’

Of course—Ling Wen suspects there might be an exception to Pei Ming’s beliefs about commitment, but they’re only suspicions, and not relevant, so she keeps them to herself.

‘How ugly?’

‘Ugly enough for her to do something like this,’ The civil god murmurs.

Before Xie Lian can say much more, however—there’s a crash, just outside the temple doors.

The god stiffens, throwing himself in front of the villagers, the other brides now neutralized, and he hears…laughter.

Pained, almost crazed.

Followed by the heavy thuds—limping.

And then, Xie Lian sees the aura. A violent, angry shade of black, crackling with resentment.

“…My darling…” A voice croons, “Have you finally come? Was this finally enough?”

The prince glances around at first, wondering if Pei ming had actually arrived without his knowing—

But there’s no other godly force in the courtyard besides him. Even Nan Feng is still dealing with the issues outside.

After a moment, the god realizes with a start—

‘Oh. She means me.’

“Will you…”

Xuan Ji’s voice shifts into a snarl as she charges at him.

“…LOOK AT ME?!”

Oh dear.

She really is quicker than Xie Lian expected, because in one fell swoop, she manages to launch herself forward, grabbing him around the neck and tossing him to the ground—then holding him there.

“LOOK AT ME!” She shrieks. “I did all of this for YOU! LOOK AT MY LEG!”

Xie Lian really is grateful that the ghost he encountered before healed his throat injury—if he ever encounters him again, he’ll have to thank him. Otherwise, this would have been very painful.

“YOU USED TO CROSS AN ENTIRE COUNTRY OVERNIGHT JUST TO SEE ME!” She howls.

“AND NOW YOU WON’T EVEN LOOK?!”

“I can’t,” Xie Lian offers, feeling almost a little bad for her. He can’t imagine how horrible it feels to be discarded like that by someone you hold so dear. “I really can’t—”

“CAN’T LIVE WITH THE GUILT OF WHAT YOU DID?!” Xuan Ji snarls.

Xie Lian hopes the situation might calm down a little if he can explain that he’s not Pei Ming—then there’s a chance to talk her down enough to let the humans go, but—

“Leave him alone!” He hears a frantic cry, then footsteps charging, and his heart sinks.

Xiao Ying.

“Don’t—!”

Xuan Ji’s head snaps up, her eyes narrowing into slits when she sees the village girl approaching with nothing more than a stick.

Brave.

What a brave little fool.

Just as she lifts her hands to strike out, Xie Lian does the same with Ruoye, but…

Not in time to stop the blow.

Xuan Ji isn’t able to sink her claws in the way she intended—not like she did with the other humans, before—but the shove is hard and violent.

Enough so to send Xiao Ying to the ground, her skull hitting the cobblestones with a violent crack.

The boy in the bandages sobs.

Xie Lian doesn’t have to see the wound to know—Xiao Ying lets out a strangled whimper, enough to tell him that the wound was fatal.

“You don’t DESERVE HIM!” Xuan Ji snarls, even as Ruoye tightens, dragging her to the ground.

Xie Lian ignores her, rushing to Xiao Ying’s side.

The young woman breathes raggedly, staring up at the sky as blood pools underneath her head. “Sir…” she shivers, “I tried to help, but I…”

Xie Lian reaches for her hand, squeezing. “You were very helpful,” He reassures her. “I was able to capture her because of you.”

That seems to bring Xiao Ying some small measure of relief, her lips twitching up into a smile as he looks towards the boy weeping by her side, “D…Don’t steal food anymore, alright? People…they won’t be kind to you…”

Xie Lian’s chest sinks, because the girl is right.

With Xiao Ying gone, he doubts anyone in the area of Mount Yu Jun would look after the boy. They already fear and resent him for being a ‘monster.’

“I’ll look over him,” Xie Lian assures her. “If he ever needs anything, he can come to me.”

Xiao Ying’s lips tremble with relief.

After a moment, he brings his other hand up to Xiao Ying’s cheek—stroking over the shape of her nose, her eyebrows, and her chin, and Xie Lian smiles, squeezing her hand gently.

“I don’t see why everyone was making such a fuss,” He murmurs, “You’re very pretty, Xiao Ying.”

From the ragged gasp the girl lets out, her eyes flooding with tears—Xie Lian can surmise that no one has ever said that to her.

Oh, what a horrible thing beauty is. Whether you have it or you don’t—the world torments you for it in one way or another.

“T…thank you, sir…”

He hears it when her heartbeat stops, and the boy’s weeping only gets louder. With one final grimace, Xie Lian gently presses Xiao Ying’s eyes shut before rising to his feet.

Xuan Ji is even more distressed than she was before, wrestling out of Ruoye’s grip.

“You DARE call another woman beautiful in front of me?!” The savage ghost snarls. “Have you NO SHAME?!”

“I’m not Pei,” Xie Lian replies flatly, far less sympathetic to her now as he turns around, opening his eyes to allow Xuan Ji to see his shackle.

“I can’t look at you, and even if I could—I have no such interests in women.”

And honestly, Xuan Ji’s behavior has only reinforced that preference.

The Ghost Bride hisses, taking a step back. “Then…he really…wouldn’t come to see me?! AFTER EVERYTHING I’VE DONE?!”

She turns to the statue of Ming Guang, her eyes filled with rage, “I BURNED DOWN ALL OF YOUR TEMPLES! MURDERED YOUR FOLLOWERS! AND YOU WON’T EVEN SPARE ME A GLANCE?!”

She stops, her breathing ragged, and turns back to Xie Lian with a glare.

“If I…”

She takes a step in his direction, her eyes flaring. “If I kill one of your PRECIOUS COMRADES, will I warrant your attention THEN?!”

Xie Lian sighs, watching as the wrath’s aura explodes outward, releasing her full power.

He’s tired.

Any humans in the surrounding area will be crushed at this rate.

If he had his spiritual powers, this never would have been a problem to begin with. No one would have gotten hurt at all, but…

He grits his teeth, launching himself forward.

There’s no choice, is there?

/BOOM!/

The sound of a gong fills the air, rattling so loudly that it makes Xie Lian stumble, clutching his ears. Then, the sky fills with bright, blinding light—and for Xie Lian to actually be able to see it—

It must be that of heaven.

But something’s wrong.

Xie Lian’s knees buckle.

Nan Feng, now finished with dealing with the other brides outside the temple, appears by his side—taking the prince by the elbow to steady him.

“Are you alright?” He murmurs, “Reinforcements are here.”

Xie Lian claps a hand over his mouth, fighting a sudden wave of nausea.

His neck, eyes, and ankle throb with agony in one continuous rhythm, scorching under the glow of heaven’s light.

It feels like it did in Gusu, but worse—and didn’t that ghost heal him? Why does it—?

But the light fades to a more manageable glow, and so does the pain.

Xie Lian’s eyelashes flutter slightly as he shakes his head, holding onto Nan Fang’s arm a little more firmly as he pulls himself up.

“I’m alright,” he murmurs. “I’m just more sensitive to light and sound than I used to be. I was overwhelmed.”

Nan Feng frowns, concerned, but…

There’s the sound of multiple people descending the temple steps, and once voice calls out, “Fu Yao and Ling Wen explained the situation. It seems this falls under the responsibility of Ming Guang palace. We’ll take it from here.”

Xie Lian frowns.

That voice…

It’s deep, resounding, and…

Oddly familiar, though he can’t place why.

“…General Pei?” He questions. Of course—he vaguely remembers the god’s voice. Between his first ascension and banishment, Pei and Jun Wu were the gods he works with the most, but…

Xuan Ji shudders.

“FINALLY!” She cries, stumbling in his direction. “You came for me, my love, I—!”

Nan Feng watches as she stumbles, then frowns, “You…” She snarls. “You’re NOT PEI!”

Xie Lian looks to his friend with a frown, “He isn’t?”

“He’s Pei Xiu, a descendant of Ming Guang.”

Nan Feng explains, still keeping a watchful eye over the god, “We usually call him Pei Junior.”

Xie Lian nods, taking that in as the guards from the palace of Ming Guang place Xuan Ji into custody, placing her in spirit binding chains.

“…What will be done with her?”

“Likely sealed under a mountain,” Pei Xiu shrugs, looking Xie Lian over. “It’s an honor to meet your highness, my general mentioned the two of you used to work together.”

Xie Lian pauses, pleasantly surprised that there’s no negative undertone to that statement. “We did, but…”

He glances in Xuan Ji’s direction, his expression one of concern. “Her grudge against Pei is strong…she blames him for her deformity, as well as her current predicament—”

Pei Xiu turns his gaze on Xuan ji, his expression cold.

“Is that what she said?”

The ice in his tone gives Xie Lian pause.

“Is that not true?”

The younger General stares Xuan Ji down, watching as the wrath writhes and hisses at him in response.

“Xuan Ji is a strong woman,” Pei Xiu murmurs, folding his arms behind his back. “Her choices were her own.”

“He USED me!” The ghost snarls, thrashing against her bonds. “And then he THREW ME AWAY!”

Instead of addressing her again directly, Pei Xiu looks to Xie Lian. “She offered to betray her country for Ming Guang, that much is true—but the rest of it is a lie.”

“…A lie?”

“NO!” Xuan Ji’s hair falls into her face, her eyes burning red, “He made me think—! He made me believe—!”

“If you truly loved the man,” Pei Xiu glares, his eyes narrowed, “you wouldn’t sully his honor so shamelessly.”

That’s interesting, Xie Lian thinks.

If Pei is such an infamous philanderer, Xie Lian is surprised to find that his subordinate is so concerned with his honor.

“Ming Guang never used the plans that General Xuan Ji gave him against the Kingdom of Yushi. He doesn’t believe in winning through dishonest means.”

Pei Xiu shakes his head. “Xuan Ji was very aware of the General’s personal situation when he returned from the war, and when he proceeded to cut ties with her—she mutilated herself so he would keep her by his side.”

Pei’s…personal situation? Xie Lian tilts his head curiously.

“Pei took care of her—generously too, she was kept in comfort—but he wouldn’t marry her. When she realized that she wasn’t going to get her way…Xuan Ji took her own life in an effort to hurt him.”

Nan Feng watches with surprise as Xie Lian’s entire expression changes.

Xie Lian knows what it feels like, to feel the bitter ache of losing someone you love. He can understand the heartbreak and anger that comes with that suffering.

But he also knows what it feels like, to find that someone you care for has taken their own life.

The idea that Xuan Ji would do that as a punishment, inflicted to hurt someone—

It fills him with such utter repulsion, Xie Lian is almost startled by it.

“I can’t say that Pei Ming bears no responsibility for the situation, but…” Pei Xiu shakes his head.

“If Xuan Ji had let go, no one else would have gotten hurt.”

Seeming tired of listening to them by now, Xuan Ji wrenches away from the guards, throwing her head back to howl at the moon, so loudly that it makes Xie Lian wince, covering his ears.

“CURSE YOU, PEI!” She shrieks.

“IS YOUR HEART TRULY MADE OF STONE?!”

Xie Lian doubts that could be true, if he was still willing to take care of Xuan Ji up until her death, but…

Admittedly, refusing to address her after this long, it seems…

Like a pointedly cold gesture.

“COUNT YOURSELF LUCKY THAT YOU HAVE NEVER TRULY LOVED SOMEONE!” She screams, with this bone deep knowledge that, somewhere, Pei can hear her.

She knows he can. Knows that for a man who smiles, teases, spends his whole life pretending that everything is a sport—

Pei Ming cares deeply about his failures. His losses.

He views Xuan Ji as the greatest among them. She knows. That’s why he isn’t here. That’s why he won’t ever look at her.

She /knows./

“BECAUSE IT WOULD BURN YOU!” Xuan Ji’s nails claw at the sky.

“JUST AS IT HAS BURNED ME EVERY MOMENT SINCE YOU CAST ME ASIDE!”

Xie Lian almost wants to pity her, but when he thinks of the dead girl, just a few feet away from them—and all seventeen of the brides who came before her…

He can’t bring himself to.

“I HOPE THAT FIRE RAGES ON!” Tears of blood stream down Xuan Ji’s face now, her voice breaking between howls of rage and broken sobs, “UNTIL YOUR HEART IS REDUCED TO ASH!”

Pei Xiu watches her coldly, pressing his fingers to his temple as he receives a message.

“…That will never happen,” the deputy replies calmly. “That is Pei’s final message to you.”

Xie Lian’s eyebrows raise.

So, Xuan Ji wasn’t wrong.

Even if Pei Ming refused to deal with her personally…he was listening.

What a complicated situation.

“CURSE YOU PEI!”

Xuan Ji doesn’t stop shrieking the entire time, even as Pei Xiu bids his goodbyes to the other gods in the temple, ordering his men to carry her back to heaven.

Xie Lian’s head pulses and aches with every single shriek.

“CURSE YOU!”

“CURSE YOU!”

“CURSE YOU!”

The prince doesn’t get a chance to sleep that night, either.

Instead, there’s the bodies of the discovered brides to be seen to, and helping the men from the palace of Xuan Zhen clear the bodies from the forest.

Fu Yao and Nan Feng bicker all the while, but not as viciously.

As a matter of fact—both stop to glance at him with concern every now and then, only to return to griping back and forth over who should have to clean the rest of the bodies away, or which one of their generals is more trustworthy.

In any case…

There’s only one task left.

The three of them stand with the boy from the mountain, before a freshly erected gravestone.

Nan Feng cut the stone, while Fu Yao did the lettering—and Xie Lian handled the grave itself.

The characters read, ‘Hear lies Xiao Ying, believed friend.’

Burials have become nearly routine over the centuries in Xie Lian’s case—as it would be for any immortal who has spent so much time in the human realm.

They fade away, he remains.

Still, he kneels—laying a hand on the boy’s shoulder, “I know you miss her,” his voice is soft.

“But she would want you to look after yourself.”

They’ll have to figure out a new situation for him soon—after all, Xie Lian is barely in a state where he can look out for himself. It wouldn’t be fair to force a child to live the way he does for too long.

“Hey…is he injured?”

Nan Feng’s voice makes Xie Lian frown, glancing up, “What do you mean?”

“There’s blood on his bandages,” the deputy god shrugs, stepping closer. “Maybe he hit his head last night?”

Given how violent the events of the battle against Xuan Ji were—that’s worrisome.

“…Best to take a look at it,” Xie Lian sighs, turning back to the child. “Go ahead and take the bandages off so we can take a look. Don’t be afraid—we won’t hurt you.”

There’s a moment of hesitation, but slowly—the child complies, unwrapping the bandages around his head.

Xie Lian reaches into his sleeve, where he always keeps a fresh set, reaching up to probe at his head for any injuries, but—

To his shock, someone smacks his hands away—sharply.

“Your highness!” Fu Yao’s voice rings out, “Don’t touch him!”

Nan Feng whips around to glare.

“What do you think you’re—?!”

But then he sees the issue, and his eyes widen.

Xie Lian glances around, trying to understand, “What’s going on here?”

“It’s—!”

“He has Human Face Disease, that’s why he was wearing the bandages!”

Xie Lian breath leaves him in a panicked rush.

His skin feels cold, and his heart—it’s suddenly pounding in his chest.

Reminding him of the last time he was sitting in the dark, listening to people scream and panic, claiming someone among them had those lesions.

Reminding him what came after.

The pain.

Endless terror.

Help me.

Xie Lian’s hands begin to shake.

“…Your highness?”

Help me.

Help me, help me, help me.

Help me, help me, help, help, help, help, help, help, help, help, help, help, help, help, help, help me!

He must have said it out loud at least once, because someone grabs him by the shoulders, giving him a hard shake.

“We’re both right here, what’s wrong?!”

The Deputy Gods give each other looks of panic, because—

Neither of them have ever seen Xie Lian like this.

Not once.

Pale, trembling, eyes open wide. It’s hard to read his emotions, through the shackle pattern—but this one speaks loud and clear.

Pure, unadulterated terror.

Fu Yao kneels beside both of them now, placing a hand on Xie Lian’s back while Nan Feng grips his shoulders.

“Dianxia,” it’s probably the first time the deputy god has addressed him so quietly, “You’re safe. Nothing is going to get you. It’s just us here.”

Xie Lian trembles violently, and—

Normally, he can keep it together better than this.

But he’s tired. And he aches. And—

And he thought he saw Hong-ear last night, but he didn’t.

And—

He chokes out two words, like he can’t even see or hear either one of them, his voice cracking—

“I-It hurts…”

His eyes roll back into his head and he goes limp in Nan Feng’s hold.

“XIE LIAN?!”

It’s all black after that. Swirling images and voices that Xie Lian can barely recognize, eyes heavy with exhaustion.

He knows he’s being taken somewhere, hears voices arguing, and—

Someone holding him tight, mumbling something that he can’t hear.

When he wakes again…

His head is against silk sheets, a pillow underneath his head, and for a moment, when he blinks—he sees something on the mattress next to him, wings flapping gently.

A silver butterfly.

Xie Lian blinks blearily, reaching for it as he sits up, but—

It’s gone.

“You’re awake.”

The voice is familiar, but he’s still a little bit groggy, reaching up to rub at his eyes, “Where…am I?” He mumbles, feeling around a little to get a grip for his surroundings, but all he finds are sheets and pillows. Comfortable, but not informative.

“The Palace of Xuan Zhen.”

Now THAT is surprising enough to make Xie Lian wake up the rest of the way, his eyebrows raising. “…Mu Qing?” He questions, then realizes who he must be speaking to now. “…Fu Yao?”

The deputy god nods awkwardly from where he’s sitting at the foot of the bed, his arms crossed.

“Nan Yang’s palace is holding Xuan Ji, so no it wouldn’t have been a good idea to take you there. Ling Wen offered to house you in the civil palace, but…” Fu Yao examines his nails, crossing his legs. “They wanted someone to give you a medical examination, so…”

Xie Lian raises an eyebrow, “What would Mu Qing’s palace have to do with that?”

Fu Yao’s tone is light, unbothered. “Xuan Zhen is a martial god, but he’s also a patron of doctors and other medical practitioners. He was the best qualified, so he checked you for injuries.”

Xie Lian didn’t know that, but…he supposes he wouldn’t, since he’s been avoiding the temples of his friends for centuries now.

“When did that come about?”

“There was a plague, several centuries ago.” Fu Yao shrugs. “Mu Qing was the god who helped manage the mortal response.”

“Oh, I think I caught that one…” Xie Lian frowns, remembering how uncomfortable it had been—and just how many people all throughout the continent had died, until the kingdoms of Xuli and Yong’an banded together to create a unified response, saving countless more lives.

“You’ll have to thank him for me—the treatment I got back then, I would have been pretty uncomfortable without it…”

There’s a long silence, and when Fu Yao replies—his tone is a little tense. “I’ll tell him.”

Xie Lian smiles, a little awkward. “Thank you, Fu Yao.”

He sits up, holding his head—not out of pain, just a little dizzy.

“It was extreme exhaustion, by the way,” the deputy god mutters. “As well as dehydration and malnourishment.”

“…I see,” Xie Lian sighs, not particularly surprised. “How long was I asleep?”

“Sixteen hours.”

Fu Yao reaches over, tapping the table next to the bed with his fingertip—allowing Xie Lian to get a sense of where it is. “My orders are to make sure you eat and drink before you leave, so don’t bother being annoying about it, I don’t care.”

Xie Lian pauses. “…Alright.”

He reaches for a glass of water, as well as what seems to be a plate of fruit, and…

Xie Lian was such a picky eater as a boy, he was usually thin because he hardly ever ate what was placed in front of him.

But—these are all of the fruits he was actually willing to eat.

His heart swells slightly as he rolls a slice of dried plum between his fingertips, his gaze hidden by his hair, but fond.

Mu Qing remembered. That isn’t surprising—he’s always had an excellent memory, better than anyone else Xie Lian has ever met.

Sometimes it’s a downfall.

“…You’ll have to tell him that I’m sorry for being such an inconvenience,” Xie Lian sighs, taking a bite.

He still does love plums, actually. He almost forgot what they tasted like.

Fu Yao is quiet for such a long time, that Xie Lian thinks silence is his actual answer, but…

“He isn’t heartless, you know.”

Fu Yao’s voice is small when he says that. Like he half expects someone to laugh at him.

Vulnerable.

Xie Lian finishes chewing, and when he replies, his voice is gentle enough that it makes Fu Yao flinch.

“I’ve always known that.”

Xie Lian doesn’t have a relationship more confusing or complicated than the one that he does with Mu Qing. Of everyone in his old life, aside from Hong’er…

He probably thought about Mu Qing the most. More than even Feng Xin, who he was ostensibly closer to.

Xie Lian can’t say that he’s never been angry with him. Or that he understands Mu Qing completely, because he doesn’t.

And sometimes, when he remembers the last times they really spoke…

It hurts, remembering what Mu Qing did.

But that doesn’t mean Xie Lian didn’t miss him.

“…I think,” Xie Lian offers carefully, taking another bite of the food laid out before him, “that sometimes, he’s so careful about guarding his emotions from other people, that…people misunderstand him.”

Fu Yao is rigid, holding himself tightly, his lips trembling.

“…But that isn’t the same as being heartless,” Xie Lian finishes, cramming more food in his mouth to shut himself up, chewing awkwardly, feeling a little anxious, hoping he didn’t say the wrong thing—

“Chew more carefully. Or you’ll choke, and I’m not going to help you.”

The martial god swallows thickly, taking a gulp of water before speaking again, “…Okay!”

He finishes the plate, along with two cups of water—as ordered—before rising to his feet, feeling around for his boots.

“Thank you for looking after me, Fu Yao.”

But, as the one who was in charge of the Mount Yu Jun case—he’ll be expected to report back now.

“I was just doing my job,” the deputy god shrugs, setting Xie Lian’s outer robe down on the bed next to him before slipping out of the room without another word.

Xie Lian sighs.

He doesn’t expect that either of his friends feel any desire to rekindle the kind of relationship that they had before—and Xie Lian doesn’t begrudge them that, but…

Ah. Well. Better not to dwell on it, now.

His first stop is the Palace of Ling Wen, who is pleased to see him.

“Your highness,” she smiles—if only a little. But for a stoic figure like her, it’s quite an expressive move. “I’m glad to see that you have recovered well.”

“Ah, yes,” Xie Lian smiles awkwardly. “It was pretty embarrassing, but…just a case of exhaustion.”

The civil god frowns. “It was likely too soon for you to be assigned a serious case like Mount Yu Jun, apologies.”

Xie Lian waves her off, “No, no—you were only trying to help me clear my debt Ling Wen, I’m grateful to you.”

He doesn’t see the awkward slant of her gaze.

Even so—he has no way of knowing that she spoke out against the assignment to begin with, and wouldn’t understand the guilt she feels now, even if he could recognize it.

“Still, I hope you take this time to rest and recover properly.”

Xie Lian nods obediently. “I will, but…”

He sighs. “There’s something else I need to report about Mount Yu Jun.”

Ling Wen raises an eyebrow, listening as he recounts his story about Lang Ying, her gaze quite concerned.

“…That’s troubling,” she admits. “We’ll start searching for him immediately. But, given his age…”

“He’s likely supernatural, I know,” Xie Lian nods. He assumes that the child must be some sort of ghost, but… “Still, I feel…”

He can’t help but feel responsible.

Ling Wen’s expression is one of sympathy. “We’ll look for him your highness, don’t worry.”

“There was also…”

Ling Wen rises to her feet, tapping the prince’s arm to indicate that he should follow. “Better to follow me to the communication array—I’m sure everyone else will want to know more of this as well.”

In general, most enter the communication array telepathically.

But, when in the heavens, there is a private chamber within the hall of the head civil god where one can enter physically, viewing the gods and goddesses visages through golden curtains as they come and go.

For Xie Lian, it’s useless—but Ling Wen often prefers the visual aid.

And the moment they step inside—there’s already arguing.

And—heavens, poor Feng Xin sounds absolutely incensed.

“I have had ENOUGH of this! Xuan ji won’t say a word about the Night Touring Green Lantern, she only wants PEI MING!” He shouts. “I’m not a damn PRISON GUARD!”

“Look,” one of the other martial gods sighs, “you’re the only one with the man power to hold her, and sealing a ghost as powerful as Xuan Ji takes time…”

“And?! Pei has plenty of resources, and this is HIS mess! Let him deal with her!”

There’s disgruntled murmuring all around.

After all—just about everyone agrees on that front. Xuan Ji is Pei Ming’s mistake, and it seems irresponsible that he’s left General Nan Yang to deal with her…

“If those two interact, it will only make things worse,” Pei Xiu speaks up, his tone even—but firm.

“Xuan Ji is violent and obsessed with the man. If she sees him and doesn’t get the reaction she wants—she’ll become even more difficult to deal with.”

Xie Lian almost pities Pei. Philanderer or not—he isn’t responsible for Xuan Ji’s crimes. And this situation must be upsetting.

“Still, Xuan Ji wasn’t such a menace before…” One of the other civil gods grumbles. “Qi Rong’s involvement makes everything more complicated.

Xie Lian stiffens slightly at the mention of that name. “…Qi Rong?”

“The Night Touring Green Lantern,” Pei Xiu clarifies.

“That’s his name.”

Logically, Xie Lian knows—it has to be a coincidence. It’s been eight centuries, and undoubtably there have been countless others with that name. But…

“Was he found on the mountain?” Xie Lian questions, slightly wary now.

“No, but he likely was, not long before you arrived,” Mu Qing is the one who speaks up now, his tone slightly fatigued. “One of my subordinates caught a glimpse of the forest demon, which means he couldn’t have been far behind.”

“Forest…demon?”

“Ren Song,” Another god answers.

“He’s rarely ever seen in the mortal realm unless hunting Qi Rong, the two have some sort of feud.”

“…Oh,” Xie Lian murmurs, his brow creasing.

Even ghosts have their politics then, don’t they?

“Is it normal for ghosts to hunt one another?”

“No,” Feng Xin manages to calm down enough to answer that question at the the very least. “Not on that scale. But Qi Rong is despised even among his own kind, so it doesn’t come as a surprise.”

“And without his meddling, there never would have been a massacre on Mount Yu Jun…”

“Speaking of Mount Yu Jun,” Ling Wen speaks up at last, lifting her chin, “none of this would have been brought to our attention without the leadership of the Crown Prince of Xianle, we all owe him a debt.”

Xie Lian squirms with discomfort, no longer used to praise.

“If there’s anything you’d like to add to the matter, your highness, now is the time.”

Right.

“…There was an incident on Mount Yu Jun, when I was in the bridal sedan,” Xie Lian explains. “I heard a child singing—but neither of the deputy gods could hear it.”

He tilts his head, “Does…something like that sound familiar to anyone?”

“Doesn’t ring a bell,” Mu Qing replies dryly.

“It must be related to Xuan Ji in some way,” one civil gods under Ling Wen speaks up. “Better to let Nan Yang—”

“Stop dumping MORE WORK ON ME!” Feng Xin snaps

“I didn’t even agree to take on Xuan Ji in the first place!”

“…I’ll make sure I look into it, your highness.” Ling Wen sighs. “Was there anything else you wanted to ask?”

“Yes,” Xie Lian agrees—and really—

He wasn’t expecting the question to cause such a stir at first.

“Has anyone ever encountered a young man who could control silver butterflies?”

Really, Xie Lian thought it wasn’t such a strange thing to ask, but the response? It’s an immediate uproar.

“Why? Did you see any?”

“Oh hell, HE’S involved?!”

“He didn’t send another challenge?!”

“Hua Cheng…” Mu Qing groans, wiping a hand down his face. “He’s speaking about Hua Cheng!”

“…Hua Cheng?” Xie Lian questions, a slight smile on his face. “Is that his name? It suits him.”

A City of Flowers. That’s rather poetic. A beautiful image, actually.

And now that Xie Lian is further removed of the emotions of that night…There was an easy sort of elegance to the man. Like everything he did was an act of living poetry.

“…Your highness,” Mu Qing questions softly, “Have you ever heard of the Four Great Calamities?”

Calamities, calamities…

“Ah,” Xie Lian claps his hands together. It’s been centuries since he was a student, but he’s never stopped relishing in knowing the answer to a question. “Nan Feng explained that on Mount Yu Jun…they’re the most powerful among ghosts, yes?”

Everyone glances over to one of the higher ranked gods present—a sharply dressed young man in simple black robes, adorned with gold earrings, his dark hair pulled up into a high, neat ponytail.

He looks tired, and rather bored—but he sighs.

“Calamity is the name of their rank, not their title,” he explains in a low, even voice—almost scholarly in the way he speaks, like he might be given a lecture. “They are known as Ghost Kings.”

“Ghost Kings…” Xie Lian repeats slowly. “The Ghost Realm has royalty?”

“Not in the way that humans or gods think of it,” the young man explains. “Each Ghost King is born after facing the most fierce trials available in the ghost realm—only three in history have ever attained such a rank.”

“But…” Xie Lian frowns. “I thought there were four?”

“Qi Rong is included on the list—but only to round them out in equal measure with the Four Famous tales,” Mu Qing explains. “Balance between the Heavens and the Ghost Realm is rather crucial.”

Xie Lian doesn’t need the Four Famous tales explained to him.

After all, he’s one of them.

The Crown Prince Who Pleased the Gods.

The Young Lord Who Poured Wine.

The General Who Broke His Sword.

The Princess Who Slit Her Throat.

“And who are the four calamities, exactly?”

“As the only one who hasn’t risen as a Ghost King, Qi Rong is the weakest among them,” the dark haired god from before replies. “He’s called the Night Touring Green Lantern—and known for his violent, garish tastes. His followers hang dead bodies in forests as offerings to him.”

Xie Lian swallows hard, trying to remind himself that—while that’s a startling, uncomfortable coincidence—

That’s likely all it is.

“After him,” the god continues, twisting his earring between his finger, “Is Black Water Sinking Ships. He’s the most reclusive of the four.”

“Is he a water demon?”

“Very astute, your highness.” The scholarly god replies dryly, making Xie Lian flush. “Little is known about him besides that very fact. The eldest Ghost King was by far the most powerful in his time—The White Clothed Calamity.”

“Bai Wuxiang,” Ling Wen supplies, not missing the way Xie Lian immediately pales in response, “but he’s long since been slain by the Heavenly Emperor.”

Xie Lian knows that. But…he…

Just remembering what he did yesterday was enough to make him faint.

The scars left by that time—they still exist on his soul, even if his flesh will always heal over time.

Just the mention of that name leaves him feeling mangled. Like an open wound.

“And finally, there’s the most powerful one still living,” the dark haired god seems to be a little reluctant to admit that fact for some reason, “Crimson Rain Sought Flower—Hua Cheng.”

“He’s known for his wraith butterflies,” Ling Wen explains softly.

“Those must have been what you saw.”

“…Is he really that much more powerful than the others?” Xie Lian questions, remembering the aura he saw that night. It was undoubtably strong, yes—but he felt no ill will from it.

“He makes Qi Rong look like an insect by comparison.”

Feng Xin explains. “And if the Night Wandering Green Lantern doesn’t manage to survive the trials to become a Ghost King, many believe it will be Hua Cheng’s subordinate who takes that spot.”

“Subordinate?” Xie Lian questions softly.

“He’s already been mentioned,” Ling Wen explains, leaning one hand on her hip. “Ren Song, a forest demon—Autumn Twilight Shrouding Forests.”

“He rarely involves himself in conflicts with heavenly officials,” the god who was explaining the tales before speaks up once more.

“But he does occasionally hunt humans, and his magic is known to cause madness.”

Hua Cheng is so powerful, that a ghost powerful enough to nearly be a calamity himself is his subordinate?

“Some even say Hua Cheng is more powerful than Bai Wuxiang was,” Feng Xin comments warily.

“It’s hard to know, since the two never walked the earth at the same time—but Hua Cheng has been far more of a threat to the Heavens.”

That leaves Xie Lian slightly startled. “…Really?”

“Well, Bai Wuxiang destroyed many mortal kingdoms,” Mu Qing murmurs, crossing his arms.

“But he only ever targeted Heavenly Officials that were in exile. He never mounted direct confrontation with the Heavens himself. He picked weaker targets—and it was easy for Jun Wu to slaughter him. But Hua Cheng…” Mu Qing trails off, his eyes narrowing slightly from the memory

“He destroyed thirty three gods at once—and single-handed.”

Xie Lian’s jaw goes slightly slack, trying to conceive of such a thing. “…He did?”

Mu Qing nods. “He challenged thirty five heavenly officials who offended him somehow—and bet his soul as collateral.”

That takes…quite a bit of confidence.

“If they won—the gods could disperse his spirit as they wished. But if Hua Cheng won, he demanded that they all descend as mortals once more.”

“Thirty three accepted,” Mu Qing recalls. “Idiots.”

“And lost shamefully,” Feng Xin mutters.

Mu Qing nods in agreement, remembering the entire affair with little joy. “They were so humiliated—they refused to fulfill their end of the bargain. But Hua Cheng wouldn’t let them get away with it—so he burned all of their temples to the ground in a single night.”

For a god, that’s essentially a death sentence.

“…but I thought you said he challenged thirty five officials, not thirty three.” Xie Lian raises an eyebrow. “Who were the other two?”

For a moment, no one answers—until Ling Wen replies delicately—

“That would be Generals Nan Yang and Xuan Zhen.”

Oh. Them? How did they offend the ghost king?

Xie Lian’s eyes flicker in the directions where he headed Mu Qing and Feng Xin speak before, questioning, “…And you two declined?”

The silence is tense.

“We were busy,” Feng Xin replies tersely. “By the time either of us realized a challenge had been made, the fight was already over.”

“Yes,” Mu Qing’s voice is a little faint—and a man with such a sharp memory is suddenly vague with the details.

“If I recall correctly, there was some sort of conflict over a temple.”

Feng Xin clears his throat, nodding in agreement. “Yeah—it was something to do with that.”

“In any case,” Ling Wen shrugs, “his butterflies still haunt the dreams of many heavenly officials.”

Xie Lian finds that hard to believe. There wasn’t anything frightening at all about them, really…if anything, they were…

Comforting in their beauty. But never frightening.

“Did he…do anything strange to you, your highness?”

“No,” Xie Lian answers honestly.

“He was actually very courteous. He guided me down the mountain—and even healed one of my injuries before disappearing.”

Feng Xin and Mu Qing stiffen—because the god never mentioned that before, and a confused murmur spreads throughout the array.

“What on earth is he up to?”

“Could it be some sort of trick? Having Hua Cheng, Qi Rong, and Ren Song on the same mountain in one night—that’s very foreboding. What if the calamities are planning something?”

The God who explained the tales of the Calamities to Xie Lian smiles faintly, canines flashing.

“If the calamities are planning something,” he murmurs. “That could spell disaster for the heavens. We should tread carefully.”

Ling Wen sighs heavily. “Ming Yi is right. In any case—I’ll speak to the emperor about these developments. That concludes our meeting.”

Most of the gods take that as an excuse to leave, but Xie Lian is quick to speak up.

“Nan Yang—Xuan Zhen.” He blinks, hoping that they heard him—and it feels like they’re listening, so he continues, “Thank you for the junior officials. They were quite a help.”

Both martial gods are quiet for a moment, with Nan Yang shifting awkwardly until he mutters, “…It’s nothing.”

“Really,” Xuan Zhen agrees, listening as Nan Yan slips out of the array without another word. “Just focus on paying off your debt with the offerings you earned.”

Xie Lian nods, “And…Mu Qing,” he glances in his friend’s direction, a little awkward. “I already told Fu Yao, but since we’re here I might as well—” He bows once more, “Thank you for your assistance—and for allowing me to rest in your palace. It was very kind of you.”

The martial god pauses, not accustomed to being called ‘kind,’ not under any circumstance, and eventually offers the gruff reply—

“It was the most practical solution. Don’t think much of it. Ling Wen,” he turns his attention to the civil god, his tone dry.

“You should speak to that friend of yours about Xuan Ji. I doubt Feng Xin is an optimal solution for the problem.”

“I was just in a meeting with Pei Ming and the Heavenly Emperor this morning,” Ling Wen replies calmly. “He’s aware of the situation.”

Xie Lian pauses, surprised.

A sentiment Mu Qing seems to share. “Pei is in the heavens right now? And he didn’t attend the meeting?”

“Even he has to report back to Jun Wu every once in a while,” Ling Wen shrugs. “But he’ll be gone by the end of the day on another assignment.”

Xie Lian frowns with sympathy. “That really is a rather unforgiving workload.”

“Indeed.” Ling Wen agrees. “And what little time he has left before his next deployment—I’m sure he’ll want to spend it attending to personal matters.”

Deployment.

That’s an interesting choice of words.

There are many martial gods in the heavens. Most of them from many different walks of life—all united by skills in combat.

However, among all of them—Pei Ming is the one who is always treated as one thing above all else—

A soldier.

Xie Lian was a soldier himself for a time. And many more, over the course of his godhood, but in his experience…it was the unhappiest thing to be.

And Xie Lian can’t help but wonder, now, if he’s not dealing with Xuan Ji…

What other personal matters does Pei Ming have?

⚠️ CONTENT WARNING: mildly nsfw / implied sexual content

“E…enou—!”

A slightly overstimulated gasp pierces the air, toes curling, fingers wrapping tightly around a bed post.

“Enough…!” the god pants raggedly, his chest flushed and heaving, covered in bruises and teeth marks. “I thought you’d be tired…”

The martial god collapses on top of him, his weight heavy but pleasant between his thighs, breathing heavily against his lover’s neck.

“I am…” Pei grumbles, mouthing at his pulse, taking satisfaction in the way it throbs under his teeth. “But it’s been months.”

And this is a pleasant sort of tired. One where the muscles in his abdomen ache pleasantly from exertion, and the scratches down his back ring with a victorious kind of sting.

He doesn’t have to think. He can just enjoy the warmth of a body underneath him.

Well. For as long as his partner is wiling to tolerate being smothered by his frame.

Which the other god does allow for a few moments, stroking his fingers threw Pei’s hair, waiting for his breathing to slow—but eventually he gives a pointed push, and Pei rolls over with a groan

“Oh, stop being such a baby,” Shi Wudu rolls his eyes, rolling over onto his stomach as he reaches for the wine pitcher on the nightstand, casting Pei an annoyed look when he starts kissing his bare shoulder. “I said enough.”

Pei grumbles, pitiful. “I only have a few hours.”

“And then you can fuck any mortal you like to your heart’s content,” The Water Master grumbles, pouring himself a glass. “I’m already going to have to spend a week’s worth of spiritual energy to make sure I’m not limping out of here.”

“Or,” Pei offers, eyeing the rapidly healing bite marks and finger shaped bruises on Shi Wudu’s hips, thighs, and torso with irritation, “You could just limp.”

The raven haired man snorts, taking a long sip of wine, “Sometimes it’s like you don’t even know me at all.”

“Proud,” Pei grumbles, sitting back against the headboard. “Are you ashamed of me?”

Shi Wudu’s eyes cut to the side, flashing at him slightly as he reaches for a silk robe, pulling it around his shoulders, “Oh, very.”

But there’s a playful edge to his tone, and Pei grins.

“I might cry, if you keep talking to me like that…” He hums, reaching one arm around the god’s waist, dragging him in.

Shi Wudu could stop him, but seems content to be pulled into the martial god’s lap, bare thighs straddling Pei Ming’s hips.

“My cruel, proud little water tyrant…” General Ming Guang muses, nosing underneath his lover’s jaw, mouthing at his sensitive places until Shi Wudu shivers, one arm wrapping around the martial god’s neck. “Always making me cry…”

“I hate that nickname,” Shi Wudu grumbles.

“Why do you always have to bring it up?”

“Well,” Pei smiles, one playful nip softening into a lingering kiss against the hollow of the water god’s ear, “because you’re a very different kind of tyrant with me.”

“You mean I set boundaries with you.”

“Cruel, vindictive…”

Shi Wudu is quiet for a moment, taking another sip from his wine, and he comments—

“I’m surprised you let them push that woman off on Nan Yang. That’s not like you.”

After all—the reason Pei Ming and Shi Wudu have always gotten on so well is because they both have great pride.

Pei Ming doesn’t speak—but the water god feels the grip around his waist tighten sharply, and then—

“If she was here, then I couldn’t have you here.” He mutters, resting his chin against Shi Wudu’s shoulder. It’s sharp, digging in slightly—but the younger man doesn’t complain.

“And it’s been months.”

Shi Wudu sighs, lowering himself down until he’s sitting in Pei’s lap more comfortably. “My palace is just as suitable.”

Now, Pei sulks. “Your brother is there.”

“It’s your own fault that he doesn’t like you.”

“You would say that no matter what I did.”

“He’s cuter than you,” Shi Wudu shrugs. “And he doesn’t annoy me as much.”

“And you wonder why I call you a water tyrant…” Pei whines. “It’s been months, and you still talk to me like this…”

Dark hair flows freely over the water god’s shoulders as he snickers.

Shi Wudu doesn’t laugh often, and he smiles even less.

Those moments are all for Pei, locked behind bedroom doors, hidden beneath sheets and layers of secrecy. He clings onto them greedily, calls them his own.

“You say that like you actually missed me…”

Pei’s reply startles him.

“Of course I did.”

His arms are still firm around Shi Wudu’s waist, face buried in his neck.

It takes the younger god a moment to respond, but when he does—he pushes against Pei’s chest, making him lean back so Shi Wudu can look at him more clearly.

“…” Shi Wudu sets his wine glass down, gripping Pei’s chin between his thumb and his index finger.

He’s as handsome as he’s always been. All sharp features, a square jaw, strong eyebrows—magenta irises glimmering up at him with hazed desire.

But there’s a darkness there.

Pei is a man of contradictions. He’s competitive, but he’s fair. Ruthless, but often kind. Playful, but one who carries a heavy burden.

Few people realize how haunted those eyes can be. The countless years of pain that lurk behind an arrogant shell.

“…That woman,” Shi Wudu repeats.

“Xuan JI,” Pei supplies helpfully, but the water god still refuses to address her by her actual name.

“That woman,” he continues, watching Pei’s expression, “did a number on you back then, didn’t she?”

The martial god doesn’t reply immediately

Instead, he pulls Shi Wudu closer in, dipping his chin down, pressing his mouth over the curve of his shoulder, his collarbones, relishing in the warmth of their skin sliding together.

“She reminds me of a time in my life that I’m not proud of.”

“Your greatest victory?”

“No,” Pei snorts, “Yushi wasn’t my greatest victory.”

He says that so bitterly, that the water master is left rather surprised. “Forgive me,” he muses, “my tutors always used to teach me that.”

“Stop making me feel old,” the general sighs. “Especially when we’re in my bed.”

“I thought you got off on having a younger lover,” Shi Wudu muses, “silly me…what was your greatest victory then?”

Pei Ming pretends to think that over very seriously, one broad palm sliding up the water god’s spine, making him shiver—the other wrapping firmly around his hip.

“Any time you say my name.”

Pei Ming always has this talent for finding the one phrase that could make even the coldest hearted—Shi Wudu being among them—fill with butterflies.

“Those would be the greatest victories I’ve had.”

It isn’t difficult to see how he’s managed to seduce so many, and leave even more broken hearted.

And for once—the water master doesn’t have much of a response. No sly comeback or harsh criticism.

He just tips forward, resting his forehead against Pei’s chest, silent.

It’s an unusual reaction. Enough so to make the general frown.

“…Are you alright?”

Shi Wudu doesn’t answer, both arms wrapped around Pei’s neck. Breathing him in. Allowing himself one small moment of comfort and weakness.

‘Maybe I missed you, too.’

But he can’t say that.

Because missing someone for him means something very different than what it means for Pei.

“Hey,” Pei’s fingers stroke the back of his neck, his voice taking on that warm, gentle tone, full of the pseudo-intimacy that breaks Shi Wudu a little bit, every single time.

“You know you can talk to me.”

With the way Shi Wudu’s head is pressed against his chest, Pei Ming can’t see the way his lips tremble.

‘I can’t.’

It’s rare, that the Water Master gets to feel safe. To find moments that feel close to freedom—or defiance.

Every time, he’s always found those moments in Pei’s embrace. Filthy little secrets that he carries with a vindictive sort of satisfaction.

But if Pei knew the truth—Shi Wudu would have nothing.

And he needs this. Besides—

‘He’s already using you to hurt me.’

Instead of answering, when Shi Wudu lifts his head—he surges up, capturing Pei’s lips once more with his own, sinking closer into his embrace, all moans and scraping teeth as the general’s hands slide lower, bruising him in the most pleasant way.

“I thought you’d had enough,” Pei rasps, hips rising up until Shi Wudu’s breath hitches, relishing in the shudder that wracks the younger man’s body.

“…I lied,” the water master breathes, pulling him closer, closer, until Pei rolls them over, pinning him down.

Shi Wudu is always lying, after all. One way or another.

Pei is slower this time, in the process of taking him apart. After all—he leaves in a few hours, and this is what will have to last him until his next homecoming.

He’s tired.

The water master is limp after, curled against his chest, his breaths slow and deep.

Pei doesn’t speak, allowing his lover to sleep, watching the peaceful set of his face as he strokes his hair.

‘You’re lucky you’ve never truly loved someone.’

That was what Xuan Ji said.

‘Because it would burn you.’

Burn his heart to ash.

That was what she said.

And Pei’s response had been that such a thing wouldn’t be possible.

He meant that—but only because he knew that love, the sort of love that means something—it doesn’t feel like burning.

Pei has been burned by desire many times throughout his life. He’s made countless mistakes as a result. All of them a result of his arrogance and his youth.

But falling in love, needing someone—it feels like drowning.

An anchor in his chest, dragging down until he chokes.

The current of it is impossible to resist, because he never actually wants to.

He wants to sink. To be dragged underneath the surface until it crushes him, pinned to the ocean floor by the cruelest of tyrants.

But it also means that he cannot resurface.

Even if staying submerged might spell doom for them both.

Still—he’s tired, and he missed his bed, and the body beside him is warm.

Pei rests, and like always—he relishes in each moment like it might be his last.

Their last.

Ling Wen presses her forehead against her hands, letting out a tired breath.

Her next meeting with Jun Wu, she knows, will not be particularly pleasant. He’s never in a pleasant mood when Pei returns, but—

“Ling Wen?”

She glances up, forcing a polite smile, “Your highness?”

Xie Lian smiles back at her warmly, his gaze focused a little too high on her forehead to be actual eye contact, but she appreciates the effort. "I wanted to thank you again for helping me so much with this incident, I appreciate it."

Once again, Ling Wen seems uncomfortable with accepting gratitude, but she nods.

"Just doing my job, your highness - and I think you'll be pleased to know that, with the offerings made from Mount Yu Jun...your debt has been completely cleared."

Xie Lian's eyes widen.

"...All of it?" He questions, clearly struggling to believe it.

After all, Xuan Ji was a difficult case--but 800,000 merits, just for that? It's a little difficult for him to grasp, and yet...

"Some very wealthy mortals called for our help, remember? Take it as good luck."

Xie Lian stares at her, wary to explain why he's so doubtful of it being a matter of 'good' luck--

(Given that his has always been rather bad)

--but he eventually forces another smile, nodding stiffly.

"I wanted to tell you that--and that I don't want to have to come begging to you for help every time I have a problem, so..." Xie Lian beams, lifting his chin, "I'm going to try and become self sufficient!"

Ling Wen blinks, her eyebrows raising. "Like raising your profile?"

There are ways they can go about that, certainly. If Jun Wu intended to release his shackles soon, that certainly wouldn't take any time at all, but in the meantime...

Well, Pei is certainly overloaded. Maybe she could convince him to allow the prince to assist?

It seems mutually beneficial--Pei would be foolish to deny the help, so--

"I decided--since I don't have any worshippers at the moment, I'll just build my own shrine and bring them in myself!"

He explains this in a rush, as though he knows how it's going to be received.

Ling Wen knows he can't see her expression (which is staring at him like he's grown a second head), so she makes a low sound of disapproval, "Your highness--!"

After all, is such a thing not beneath him, a god of his age?

"I'll see you again soon!"

And with that, he's off.

Despite his rather rushed delivery and exit of the heavens (this time, descending far more gingerly--though he still smacked into a cloud or two), this idea wasn't one that Xie Lian came up with on the spur of the moment.

Actually, he had been thinking about it on Mount Yu Jun.

During his first banishment, Xie Lian had been desperate to ascend once again. For his parents sake, and that of Feng Xin and Mu Qing. That became more complicated after meeting Hong-er, but...

Going back to the Heavens was always the plan.

Then, during his second banishment, at some point...it felt less like ascension was the ultimate goal. More like he was simply enduring one day to the next. And when he was finally in the Heavens again--

Xie Lian found himself unhappy, confused, and overwhelmed.

In the end, it's probably something defective with him. He's been living this way for so long--he just...doesn't know how to...and, well...

He deserves to be alone.

But regardless of the reasoning behind his decision to return to the mortal realm--Xie Lian did make a plan.

Back when he was working on his dress in Nan Yang's temple, Xie Lian had asked himself--if he could go anywhere, and start over again, where would he go?

And the answer that came to him was simple--but comforting.

There's a small village, sitting in the foot of the mountains.

Xie Lian stops on the path, leaning one palm against the trunk of a maple tree, the wind stirring in his hair.

It smells fresh, clean--like the forests surrounding. A river running at the foot of the mountain. And from the slightly wet smell--

They have rice patty fields now.

Xie Lian smiles faintly, fingers digging into the bark.

It's changed in many ways. There are slightly more people now than there were back then--though this is still far too small to be called a town.

But the air feels the same, and the road bed is ancient, but familiar.

And the people--tens of generations removed from the ancestors that Xie Lian once knew--are still kind, directing him towards what has long since been an abandoned shrine, informing him of the village's new (three centuries old) name--

Puqi.

Honestly, Xie Lian hadn't expected the former shrine to still be standing--and to be fair, it's rather different from what it used to be.

It's burned down to the stone foundations several times. Been rebuilt as a shop, an inn--and now, a half built and abandoned family home.

And now, with it long since unoccupied, the locals see no harm in allowing a blind taoist take up residence, particularly if he wants to build a shrine.

None of them can remember the last time there was a real shrine in the village--most of them have to walk to the next town over to pray.

One of the farmers sends his sons to help Xie Lian settle in, even though he insists it's unnecessary--and they express their curiosity.

"Sir, which god are you going to be worshipping here?" One of them questions, holding the parts up for Xie Lian while he sets up his loom in the corner.

Right. Introductions. First impressions are important!

Xie Lian clears his throat, "For the Crown Prince of XIanle."

"Who?"

Well. He should have seen that one coming.

"Well...he's...a prince," Xie Lian explains awkwardly.

"We...kinda figured."

Right.

"What sort of stuff does he do?" One of the boys questions, fiddling with Xie Lian's hat before setting it back down carefully.

"Protects his believers I think," Xie Lian mutters, wishing he sounded more confident. Shouldn't he, of all people, know the answer to that? "Oh! And weaving, he's a patron of weavers."

That doesn't really get much of an inspiring stir from the group of villagers.

"...What about wealth, or good luck? Can he offer anything like that?"

"No," Xie Lian shakes his head. "He's not that sort of god, I'm afraid."

"Oh..." The boy frowns. "Maybe you should build a shrine for the Water Master instead! He's totally amazing, we'll all be rich!"

"Or what about Ling Wen?" Another speaks up. "Maybe we'd have a scholar then!"

"Or..." The last in the group seems to be the most shy about his suggestion, but it doesn't stop him from making it--

"What about General Dick Yang?"

Oh boy.

"Thanks for the suggestions!"

Xie Lian bows his head, smiling pleasantly. "But I think I'll be sticking with the Crown Prince of Xianle just the same."

Though worshipping the Water Master is just a little tempting, if only from a financial perspective, but...

Doing so just to make money for his own shrine seems more than a little dishonest, so...

Xie Lian sighs.

He doesn't have much at the moment--he really didn't leave Gusu with anything but his loom. So, for now, until he can start making money off of his weaving again...

He's really back to square one--and since busking really isn't that popular in the countryside, there's only one way for him to make money--

Scrap Collecting.

Which isn't so bad--Xie Lian has actually developed a knack for picking out worthwhile junk.

Most people would find that to be a pretty useless skill--and most people don't have absolutely nothing to their name, so they would be right.

But in Xie Lian's case--it works. Not to mention the fact that people are always so generous, he never struggles with finding donations!

(In truth, it's because of his good looks--but the Crown Prince has no way of knowing that.)

In any case, he manages to get his hands on some fortune shakers, an incense burner--the sort of things you need for a proper shrine--along with a few scrolls that seem interesting.

The villagers felt a little bad about donating such things to a blind man at first--but relaxed when Xie Lian assured them he could put them to good use.

His feet are pleasantly sore on the walk back--a feeling that he's never minded, but...

An Ox cart draws near.

"Ah, Mr. Priest?" A kind faced farmer leans over, pulling the cart to a halt. "You heading back? Why don't you hop on, rest your feet for a while."

"Oh..." Xie Lian smiles, a little unsure. "I couldn't impose--"

"It's no imposition at all, please!"

Xie Lian's smile softens.

The people of this mountain have always been so kind. Clearly, that was something they passed down to their descendants.

"Alright, thank you," he murmurs, climbing up and into the back of the wagon, leaning against a pile of hay.

What he can't see now, is that a pair of long, shapely legs are visible from the other side of that same very bale of hay. Clad in black leather boots, trimmed with fur.

For now, the prince focuses on examining one of the scrolls he was given--running his fingers over the ink.

This scroll seems to be an informational text about the gods--perfect for his temple, and when he opens it, the first line--it's actually about him!

Prince of Xianle...ascended three times...

God of Misfortune.

Xie Lian grimaces.

A Rubbish God.

And finally, in parenthesis--

(A martial god as well.)

Well. At least they remembered that much.

The prince lets out a low sigh, setting the scroll down in his lap--trying to be positive. It's his main method for self soothing at this point.

"Well...a god is a god," he mutters. "They're all equal."

"Just like all living things."

"Is that so?"

Xie Lian stops, jumping a little at the sound of a voice that isn't his own.

A deep, smooth...warm voice, one with an almost playful edge to it, and--

Surprisingly nearby.

"I had an argument with a teacher about that once."

Xie Lian turns his head in the appropriate direction, peeking around the hay, but...for the most part, the air around him is just as dim and blank as ever.

Quickly, realizing the person must be mortal--he shuts his eyes.

"You did? What sort of argument?

Xie Lian can hear the young man hum in response--but he can't see the youth's relaxed posture. The way he folds his arms behind his head--the lazy way his eyes glance over Xie Lian's face.

"She said that all things are equal too--but once we ascend as gods, we're infallible."

"Ah, well," Xie Lian laughs sofrlt, shaking his head. "That's obviously not true. If it was, why would some of them fall?"

"That's exactly what I said," the youth smiles, eyes never leaving Xie Lian's face. "Plus...a little extra."

The prince raises an eyebrow. "Like what?"

"Oh..." He trails off for a moment, then admits, "That if gods were fallible, they had little authority to dictate right and wrong to mortals."

Xie Lian lets out a startled laugh, covering his mouth with one hand, "My, that's...quite a statement."

"You don't agree?"

"...Not with the premise of your assumption," Xie Lian replies, his tone mild. "I don't think it's about authority."

The youth raises an eyebrow, eyes as bright as starlight. "Then what do you think?"

"Humans choose who they worship," he murmurs, fiddling with the scroll.

"If gods are wrong, or they fail to meet their obligations--people stop following them. If they don't live up to the beliefs they preach, then they don't last for very long."

He certainly didn't.

"So, in that sense...all gods are equal." He finishes.

Then he realizes how rude he must sound, talking over the young man like that, and he tacks on--

"Or, well--that's just what I think, anyway."

"Quite the philosopher," the youth muses. It sounds like a phrase that would be mocking, but...

From him, it sounds sincere.

After a moment, Xie Lian glances back down at his scroll--trying to regain some air of casualness, brushing his fingertips over more information about the gods. This time, speaking of the Water Master.

"...You know," Xie Lian frowns. "I never understood how a water god ended up being the god of wealth. I don't see how the two are connected."

"Ah," this time, when the young man speaks--he sounds a little cocky. "That has little to do with him being a water god."

"Oh?" Xie Lian lowers the scroll once more. "It doesn't?"

He shakes his head. "It's everything to do with him being a Water Tyrant. No ship leaves the harbor without an offering. If it does, they sink. As such, he controls trade--so naturally, he's the wealthiest of the gods."

"...You certainly do know quite a bit about gods," Xie Lian comments, setting the scroll back in his bag. "Particularly for someone so young."

"Oh?" The young man sits forward. "How old do you think I am?"

"Ah..." Xie Lian pauses, turning his head away, slightly unsure.

Which would be the least offensive thing to do--over estimating, or underestimating? And can he really judge that accurately based on only his voice?

"...Eighteen?" The god guesses awkwardly--and he hears a soft chuckle in response, un-offended.

"Give or take."

Xie Lian hears soft rustling, like the young man has kicked back against the hay once more, and there‘a such an easiness to him, it…

“Either way, you know more than I would have expected for someone that age. Are you studying cultivation?”

He hears a snort in response.

“No—I just like reading whenever I get the chance, I pick up a lot that way.”

Xie Lian finds himself in the odd position where he’s struggling to keep his eyes closed.

He doesn’t normally struggle with that. After all—there’s not much temptation when there’s nothing to see.

Besides—this is a mortal, so he can’t risk looking at him anyway. And yet…

There’s something strikingly familiar about him, one that makes Xie Lian feel like, if he could just look at the young man properly—he would recognize him from somewhere.

But even when he peeks under his eyelashes—there’s only darkness.

“…Well,” the prince sits forward slightly, “you know a bit about gods. What about ghosts?”

The way he talks now—

It sounds like he’s smiling.

“I’ll tell you anything I can. Which Ghost do you want to know about?”

“…Hua Cheng,” Xie Lian offers delicately, paying close attention to the young man’s reaction.

His heartbeat and breathing are easy, undisturbed.

“Hmmm…” The boy muses. “What about him?”

“…Crimson Rain Sought Flower,” Xie Lian pulls one leg underneath him. “How did he get that name?”

“Well, the stories are vague and contradictory…” The teenager mumbles, “But the most common tale is that—when he loses control—the sky rains blood.”

“Oh my,” Xie Lian murmurs.

“I suppose it’s a good thing he’s always wearing red.”

He can’t see the surprised look the young man gives him, but he hears an amused grunt, “What do you mean?”

“Well…” Xie Lian pauses. “…The stains won’t show up on his clothes?”

There’s a long pause.

Then, laughter, but—not the sort that makes Xie Lian feel embarrassed, or like he’s the butt of a joke.

Delighted little peals of laughter, the sort that make Xie Lian’s heart wobble uncertainly against his ribs.

“I never thought of that, but yes, you’re right!”

He clutches a hand over his stomach, letting out a few more amused chuckles, “And that’s not so far off from how he got the name.”

Xie Lian tilts his head, for some reason—he’s smiling, just a little—without even meaning to.

“It is?”

The young man nods, “He lost his temper while clearing out another ghost’s lair—and when he saw a white flower getting stained by the bloody downpour, he tilted his umbrella to protect it.”

He says the story a little sheepishly—almost like he thinks it’s silly, but…

Xie Lian’s smile softens.

“…What a lovely way to get a name,” he shakes his head, unaware of how closely he’s being watched.

For the most part, anyway.

“Is he violent?”

“…” The smile on the young man’s face isn’t quite as bright now. “That depends.”

“On?”

He fiddles with the end of his sleeve, glancing away from Xie Lian’s face for the first time. “If he’s been provoked.”

Well—there are certainly worse things to be.

“Do you know what kind of person he was, before he died?”

Now, the teenager’s smile fades completely.

“A bad one.”

He doesn’t offer much more explanation than that, and with how quiet his voice becomes, Xie Lian…doesn’t pry.

Instead, he opts for what must sound like the silliest line of questioning ever, coming from him, but…

“Do you know what he looks like?”

The young man doesn’t make fun of him for asking. Instead, he sits up, scooting closer to Xie Lian until they’re truly sitting side by side, his legs crossed in front of him as he leans close, and—

The tips of the God’s ears are a little warm.

“What do you think he looks like?”

“…” Xie Lian turns his face away, his throat a little dry.

He—isn’t used to having people sit close to him anymore, that’s all.

“…Probably a young man, like…you.”

“What makes you say that?”

His eyes bare down on Xie Lian’s cheek, and the god keeps his chin turned away.

“Just a hunch,” he murmurs, “And he can probably take whichever form he likes, so…”

“But his true form,” The boy presses. “You think that would be a young man too?”

“Well,” Xie Lian hums, thinking. “…I think so, yes.”

And then, remembering Mount Yu Jun, he adds—

“And tall.”

From the way Xie Lian’s face easily fell into his chest when falling from an elevated sedan—he’s likely quite tall.

The young man doesn’t debate that point, despite having questioning every other statement Xie Lian has made so far.

“I do know one thing about his true form.”

That catches Xie Lian’s attention. “Really? What is it?”

“His eye,” He explains, leaning his chin on his head. “His right one.”

“Oh,” The prince crowns with sympathy. As someone with a complicated relationship with his own eyes—that would be a horrifying thing to go through.

“I wonder how that happened…”

“Something stupid,” is muttered half under someone’s breath, and Xie Lian smiles.

“What was that?”

“People say he gauged it out himself,” the young man explains, not acknowledging the outburst. “That he went mad.”

“…I see,” The god replies.

“Does he have any weaknesses?”

He’s surprised by how quickly the teenager replies now, “His ashes.”

His ashes.

Xie Lian’s fingers drift to his throat absentmindedly, unaware of the way the young man’s eyes follow him. “Because if he lost those, he…”

“Would be gone forever,” the young man agrees. “That’s right.”

What a frightening thought.

“But rumor is—Hua Cheng’s ashes have been hidden for a long time.”

“Hidden?”

“The love of his life carries them for him,” the boy explains softly. “That’s the story I know.”

Oh. That—

That’s horribly romantic, but…

“That’s a lot of trust to put in someone,” Xie Lian murmurs, “what if he ended up betrayed?”

He can’t imagine a more heartbreaking thought—but the youth doesn’t seem bothered.

“Even if he was—I don’t think he’d care about that.”

The teenager explains firmly. “If it were me—even if the person I chose to give my ashes to destroyed them, I’d be fine with it. I wouldn’t have any regrets.”

That’s…an unparalleled level of commitment that Xie Lian struggles to comprehend, but…

It’s oddly comforting, too.

“…I just realized,” he murmurs, lifting his chin, “I’m sorry for not asking earlier, my friend—but what’s your name?”

Xie Lian wasn’t the only one, making plans after Mount Yu Jun.

Hua Cheng had worn countless faces over the years. Dozens of aliases.

But never once did he feel like himself. It was never his true face, and he—

He was never Hong’er.

Hua Cheng suspects—even if his name hadn’t been stolen, he would have taken a different one eventually anyway.

Because the name Hong’er—it was the one his mother gave him.

It’s a name that belongs to his humanity, and—

Xie Lian is the only one left who knows the part of him.

It belongs to him, and Hua Cheng wouldn’t have wanted anyone else using that name either.

The silence stretches for so long, Xie Lian begins to wonder.

“…H…”

The god sits there patiently, unable to see the way that the teenager grits his teeth, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth with a glare.

It was worth one more try.

But…

He glances around them.

The road is framed by a sea of maples, turning red with the end of summer.

He lets out a slow, shaky sigh, taking in the beauty of it—almost like a sea of fire, swallowing up the entire valley.

Hong’er is dead, and Hua Cheng isn’t human anymore.

But dead isn’t gone.

And there’s another name that a mother gave him.

“…Me?” He questions softly.

Xie Lian can’t imagine why the teenager is so hesitant, but—the question seems to genuinely vex him, and it really isn’t worth that.

He’s about to tell him that it’s alright, he doesn’t have to answer, when—

“I’m the third in my family,” the teenager replies in an easy drawl.

“So, they call me San Lang.”

He folds his hands behind his head on the cart, maple red robes gleaming in the twilight.

Dark, wild hair pulled over his shoulder in a loose ponytail. Eyes like falling stars, staring up at the setting sun.

And when he looks down…

The Crown Prince is smiling, the setting sun hitting his hair just right, highlighting the lighter strands of brown in a sea of chestnut waves, his face filled with warmth.

And the youth can’t do anything but stare back at him, eyes wide and helpless.

“It’s nice to meet you, San Lang,” he murmurs.

San Lang.

Xie Lian—he really likes that name.

“My name is Xie Lian.”

The younger man swallows dryly, clinging to some semblance of composure.

“It’s…nice to meet you too,” he murmurs, swallowing down heartbreak. “…Xie Lian.”

There’s a pause, with Xie Lian left unsure of what to say. He isn’t sure what about such a subject could leave the young man sounding…

Sad. Quietly so, but still—the last thing the prince wants is to upset him.

“So…are you traveling to somewhere in particular?”

San Lang shrugs, blowing a maple leaf off of his shoulder. “My mother and I got into a disagreement, so I got kicked out for a little while. I’m just wandering around and killing time for now.”

Xie Lian cracks a small smile. What a care free way of thinking.

“Is it alright to ask what the fight was about?”

San Lang’s smile is lopsided, eyes flashing—and any sadness in his tone is replaced by a calm air of playfulness. “Fighting with my teachers.”

Xie Lian covers his mouth, laughing softly. “I hope you’re welcome back soon…”

“Don’t worry about me,” the youth shakes his head. “I’m her favorite, A little disagreement in family every now and then keeps things interesting, don’t you think?”

Xie Lian knows he should probably scold him—it’s a rather misbehaved way of thinking, but…endearing.

“You said have two older brothers?”

San Lang hums in agreement. “Zhang Wei and Bolin.”

Xie Lian nods, noticing that the young man never did mention his family name—but he doesn’t protest. They’re lovely names, actually. “Do they miss you, with your mother kicking you out?”

“Ah, no, they’re both out of the house by now,” San Lang shakes his head. “With lives of their own. Besides—they’re much older than I am.”

Xie Lian nods—such things are rare, but not heard of. It also explains the cocky, slightly childish attitude.

Any family would be delighted to have another son later on in life. Particularly such a clever, charming young man. It’s easy to imagine that San Lang likely grew up a little spoiled, but…Xie Lian isn’t one to judge on that front.

“It must have been a little lonely growing up.”

After all—Xie Lian was an only child himself, and he often longed for company. But his mother’s health was never such where they felt it was safe for her to try for another child. That was why he worked so hard to make friends his own age, even…if it didn’t work out.

“They were gone before I could really be used to having them around,” the youth explains, then adds with a small smile, “My mother—she actually used to tell me that my older brothers were dragons, and they just flew away for a little while.”

Xie Lian smiles softly.

“That’s a sweet story. Does that make you a little dragon too?”

“Sometimes,” he almost doesn’t sound like he’s playing along when he says that—like he’s actually being completely serious. “But usually not.”

Xie Lian tilts his head, but now, San Lang has his own questions.

“What about you, gege? where are you traveling?”

Xie Lian’s expression freezes for a moment—and all thoughts of dragons, brothers, and indecent behavior are forgotten.

Gege.

It’s been…so long since…

His heart swells with something bittersweet.

“Is everything alright?”

“…Yes,” Xie Lian smiles apologetically. “Sorry, I was in my own head for a moment. I’m returning to my shrine—in the Puqi Village, though you’re probably not familiar—”

“I am, actually.” San Lang states firmly. “I visited when I was much younger.”

The prince can’t remember the last time he sat down and had such a pleasant, easy conversation with a mortal. Normally—people don’t spare much time for a blind man, and Xie Lian…

Isn’t used to company.

But this—

This is rather lovely, actually.

“You did?”

San Lang nods.

Xie Lian can’t see the nostalgia in his gaze, when he watches him. Can’t know how much he longed to tell the god such things about himself, before—and always regretted that he never did.

“I was born further north, in Qinghe.”

Xie Lian is familiar with the port city.

Ancient—formerly a stronghold of the Kingdom of Xuli, even though the once mighty empire of the north has declined and broken up into smaller territories now.

“But there was better opportunity for my family in the central plains. So, when we traveled south…”

San Lang shrugs, his eyes sliding over to the maple trees once more, watching as the sun slips underneath the horizon, the valley slowly falling into shadow.

“We took this road. The leaves looked just like this—even back then.”

Xie Lian glances around them, having to continuously remind himself to shut his eyes around San Lang—that’s the problem with getting so comfortable. “Have the leaves already started changing?”

“Mhmm,” San Lang agrees, plucking one falling maple leaf from the air.

He drops it in the god’s lap, giving Xie Lian the chance to feel for himself that it’s dried and fallen, making way for autumn. “See?”

Xie Lian smiles faintly. He always liked that time of year—it brings back the fond memories he has from his youth.

“So, gege—” San Lang tilts his head, “Which god is your shrine for?”

Ah.

Xie Lian smiles over at him, prepared for the same reaction he’s gotten so far. “The Crown Prince of Xianle,” he explains. “But it’s okay if you haven’t heard of him.”

The younger man frowns. “I—”

The wagon jolts slightly, coming to a sudden stop—and Xie Lian, unbraced for such a movement, is sent toppling forward, half expecting to go tumbling out of the cart.

‘Oh well,’ he thinks to himself grimly, bracing himself for landing, ‘the robes aren’t new anyway.’

But he doesn’t fall.

Someone catches him—easily, but with an immediacy that makes it seem like he started moving as soon as Xie Lian did.

And for a moment, he finds himself cradled against the young man’s chest, the soft fabric of his tunic underneath his cheek.

The god forces himself not to feel excitement this time, when he catches the scent of the forest and rain. Not after what happened last time.

An arm is wrapped around the small of his back, holding him steady.

“Are you alright, gege?”

For a moment, he doesn’t lift his head.

But when he does, he offers a small smile. “Yes—thank you, San Lang.”

The young man smiles patting Xie Lian’s back gently in response before letting him go.

At the front of the carriage, the farmer struggles. “Blasted beast!” He cries. “I’m sorry, boys—she won’t go further!”

Xie Lian frowns slightly, reaching over to use San Lang’s shoulder to brace himself as he stands up in the cart, his head poking out from behind the hay, peeking his eyelids open in order to look for a disturbance.

(He doesn’t see it, but San Lang’s eyes flash pleasantly when Xie Lian initiates contact, even for something so small.)

And there, maybe a few dozen yards down the path…he sees a group of dark auras. Weak. Not a threat to Xie Lian, but with two mortals to look after…

It could be troublesome.

“Is there some sort of event going on?” He mutters, half under his breath, only to hear San Lang reply—

“A Ghost Festival.”

A time when the Ghost and Mortal realms are impossibly close together, and…it’s easy to lose your way without even meaning to.

Xie Lian frowns, walking towards the front of the cart. “…It’ll be alright,” he murmurs, allowing Ruoye to sneakily slide down his sleeve and slip around the cart, forming a protective barrier. “We just have to keep quiet.”

San Lang manages it just fine—but the poor farmer is in such distress, Xie Lian isn’t given a choice other than knocking him out with a two gentle strikes to his pressure points, easing him back against the hay.

The group of ghosts approach, yellow lanterns swinging in the night

They stop when they run into the barrier created by Ruoye, clearly a little baffled, but after a moment they shrug it off, circling around and continuing on their way.

Xie Lian lets out a shaky breath of relief, “Are you alright?”

“No,” San Lang mumbles, his tone sullen.

Before Xie Lian can ask what’s wrong, he drops down onto the driving bench at the front of the cart next to him, sliding closer until Xie Lian can feel the heat of his body against his side. “I’m pretty scared, actually.”

Funny—he doesn’t sound very convincing, saying that.

In any case, Xie Lian offers him a comforting smile, resting a hand against his knee. “Don’t be,” he reassures him. “I’m a priest, remember? I can handle a few ghosts—I’ll keep you safe.”

Those eyes are watching closely again, fixing on the hand resting against his knee.

He’s quiet, long enough that Xie Lian is about to ask him if he’s alright, when voices start crying out again in the distance.

“The Ghost Fires!” Someone cries out, “Someone’s been out here scattering them!”

“How cruel!” Another Ghost whimpers.

His head isn’t actually attached to his body, so he uses his hands to shake it with dismay. “Who would do such a thing?”

“Hey…” One of them trails off, “That magical barrier back there, you don’t think…”

Xie Lian winces, praying his rotten luck won’t—

“…it’s a Taoist?”

Yeah, who was he kidding?

They need to get moving, which is why Xie Lian starts to reach for the reins—quickly realizing just what a horrendous idea that would be, when…

San Lang, seeming to understand his intention, leans back, sweeping one arm and leg around, taking the reins for himself, using them to gently flick the oxen to life.

It’s very helpful, but it also…

He tilts his face down, and even with the breeze—his face is hot.

The action leaves the god sitting between San Lang’s spread thighs, the young man’s chest pressed against Xie Lian’s back—warm and solid.

It’s—not inappropriate, exactly—but Xie Lian isn’t see to having people so close. Not—

Not ever, really.

“Gege, did you hear me?”

He jumps, startled out of his thoughts, slightly embarrassed by the slightly higher pitch to his voice when he replies, “I’m sorry, but I didn’t.”

San Lang shrugs, leaning closer so he can whisper next to Xie Lian’s ear, “There’s a fork in the path. Which way should we go?”

That doesn’t help at all with the confusing rush of warmth down the back of Xie Lian’s neck, but he clears his throat. “I…it’s easy to get lost in the Ghost Realm once you’re in it,” he explains. “It has to be a lucky guess, and—”

“That’s why I asked you,” San Lang blinks.

“…Lucky guesses aren’t my specialty, San Lang,” Xie Lian protests weakly, fighting the urge to shrink between his eyes with shyness, feeling so horribly silly.

“Don’t worry, gege,” San Lang’s voice is warm and reassuring. “Just pick, and everything will be fine.”

Xie Lian squirms silently, and for the first time in years—he feels like a child.

“…Left,” he mutters, clearing his throat, then trying to say it again with more confidence, “That was the original path, anyway.”

San Lan smiles faintly, flicking the reins.

“Then left it is.”

At first, when they veer in that direction—Xie Lian thinks he’s made a mistake, hearing the ghosts come their way, but…just as he and San Lang both turn their heads back to look, all trace of the ghost procession seems to disappear.

Xie Lian frowns, raising an eyebrow.

“Did they just…leave?”

San Lang shrugs, his eyes returning to their original color, fangs shrinking back as he leans away to an appropriate distance. “That protection spell you cast was amazing—you probably scared them off.”

It sure didn’t seem like it, but…

Xie Lian smiles, “…I supposed I did! I really didn’t realize it was so intimidating…”

The night is cool and calm. There’s an occasional breeze, the temperature dropping slightly—but San Lang is warm against his back, and they almost sit in comfortable silence.

Xie Lian says almost, because, well…

He spends most of it with a nearly rigid posture. Never spreading his knees even a little bit, less his legs brush against San Lang’s. Sitting at just the right angle, shoulders hunched in, so they brush one another as minimally as possible.

And yet…

The journey back takes at least an hour, and San Lang’s posture is so easy, so relaxed—he even pulls one leg up to rest his foot against the bench. A lazy stance, but it makes Xie Lian feel comfortable enough to spread his knees—if only a little bit.

That calm is contagious, enough so for Xie Lian to slowly—cautiously, hoping the young man doesn’t find it rude, but he was the one who placed them so close together in the first place—ease back until he’s leaning against San Lang’s chest, fingers fidgeting in his lap.

But there is one thing that keeps nagging at him.

After seeing that many ghosts—and watching Xie Lian cast a spell like that—shouldn’t San Lang be a little less relaxed?

Honestly, while he does have a playful demeanor that can be easily mistaken as youth…he feels older.

Much older.

As a matter of fact—there are moments when Xie Lian feels as though he’s telling with someone—or something—far closer to himself in terms of years, but…

“San Lang?” he questions softly.

The chest against his back rumbles slightly as San Lang hums in response.

“Yes, gege?”

“Do you…” He starts, then stops, his fingers fidgeting a little more quickly, then stopping. “…Have you ever had your palm read?” He blurts out.

In all honesty, it isn’t much of a ruse—but if he’s mortal, it won’t matter, right?

San Lang is smiling down at him, eyes shining with affection he doesn’t have to hide, not when there’s no one around to witness it.

His voice, however, is casual as ever. “Nope! Why?”

“…Do you mind if I take a look?” Xie Lian questions, holding his own hands up in offering.

“Not at all,” the young man replies, gathering the reins in one hand, before placing the other in Xie Lian’s.

It’s bigger than he expected it to be—a little more sturdy with his own than he was expecting.

And when he feels a few callouses—on the underside of his palm mostly, and he blurts out—

“Have you ever used sabers?”

San Lang doesn’t look surprised that he figured that out, his gaze warm, but he still speaks with awe, “You can tell just from holding my hand? How amazing!”

Xie Lian’s touch is featherlight, running over the details of his palms. After all—ghosts can fake many things in their human skins, but very few could manage to capture the details flawlessly.

And yet…

His palm lines are perfectly normal.

“Well?”

Right.

Xie Lian clears his throat, trying very hard not to sound terribly distracted. “You’re a determined, loyal person with a strong sense of self. You’re capable of turning negative circumstances into blessings. My friend—your future is very blessed.”

Of course—he’s making all of that up. Xie Lian never bothered to learn actual fortune telling from Mei Nianqing, always so sure in his own path that he never felt the need to look ahead.

(As one might imagine, he has some regrets.)

But in general, he’s found that no one ever complains when he offers some vague, overall positive obfuscations about their future.

He lets go of San Lang’s palm with a smile, but the youth doesn’t draw it back immediately. “You don’t see anything else?”

“Um…”

Xie Lian trails off, trying think if there was something more that one needed to include in something like palm reading—and San Lang leans closer, his smile turning sly.

“Like my love life, for example? Anything about marriage?”

Xie Lian pauses, slightly flustered.

“…I’m sure you won’t have any trouble on that front, no need for a fortune teller there!” He laughs nervously, rubbing the side of his head.

“Oh?”

Now, Xie Lian feels somewhat aware of the fact that he’s being watched closely.

“What makes you say that?”

“Well…”

Xie Lian leans away, only to end up leaning into San Lang’s arm on the other side of him, and his cheeks are slightly hot once more. Actually—he’s been blushing on and off ever since they get into this position.

How pitiful, at his age.

“Well—you’re clever, and handsome.”

Xie Lian shrugs. “I have no doubt that girls spend a lot of time throwing themselves at you. So, you’ll have no troubles finding a wife. I-If that’s what you’re interested in, anyway—”

“Husband or wife,” San Lang replies with a confident drawl, “if they’re the right person, it makes no difference to me.”

That answer is vaguely familiar—in a way that makes the prince’s stomach lurch, but San Lang doesn’t give him very much time to think about it.

“But gege—how do you know that I’m handsome?”

Xie Lian pauses, swallowing dryly. San Lang’s arm is warm and firm agains this back, and his torso is pressed comfortably against Xie Lian’s side, and he just…

“You…have a nice voice?” He mumbles, hands balling up nervously.

“Plenty of people with nice voices have horrible faces,” San Lang muses, clicking his tongue with dismay. “Maybe I should invest in a proper mask—”

“I highly doubt you need to do that,” Xie Lian mumbles, only to jump when San Lang leans even closer.

“Why not see for yourself?”

“I, oh…” Xie Lian’s eyebrows crease slightly, “I wouldn’t want to intrude…”

San Lang’s laugh is soft and easy, just like the night breeze itself. “If gege is shy, that’s perfectly fine—but I wouldn’t think of it as intruding at all.”

…He’s really shameless, isn’t he?

Xie Lian has never considered himself shy before, but….

He reaches up, awkwardly patting his palm against San Lang’s cheek, finding the skin there soft and smooth, without a hint of stubble that one might expect from an older man.

His jaw is squared, though not quite out of the softness that comes with youth. And—

Xie Lian was right, he is smiling—and there’s a soft, endearing dimple in the right corner of his mouth that makes the god’s heart flutter.

His examination isn’t as through as what he might have done normally—he just traces his fingertip down the line of San Lang’s nose before he retreats, not wanting the young man to notice how unsteady Xie Lian’s hands have become.

“Well, I was right.”

The youth smirks, “Oh?”

Xie Lian smiles up at him awkwardly before looking away, scratching the side of his cheek. “You’re very good looking, San Lang.”

He can’t see the way the youth’s expression shifts into a sulking pout, because that wasn’t the exact word he had been looking for.

“Very good looking?” He questions softly, carefully fishing for the exact reaction he wants, but…

Xie Lian turns his chin slightly, his eyebrow raising with endeared amusement.

“San Lang…are you just trying to get me to compliment you?”

Instead of a polite denial, Xie Lian gets an impish laugh in response, and his lips turn up into an endeared smile.

Yes—definitely shameless.

“Ah, gege—it looks like we’ve arrived at your shrine.”

The wagon is gently pulled to a halt as San lang climbs down first, offering Xie Lian a hand to help him down in turn—his grip gentle, but firm as he bears the god’s weight with ease. And Xie Lian…

He really can’t remember the last time someone looked after him so considerately

“Thank you, San Lang…” he murmurs.

It’s a brief matter, waking the farmer up, politely requesting that he not repeat the events he had witnessed, and once that’s finished—he looks back to the young man.

“Where will you go now?”

“Oh…” San Lang trails off with a shrug.

“I’m not sure—I’ll probably just find a cave or something to sleep in. Thank you for the company and the conversation, I rather enjoyed it.”

Really, Xie Lian enjoyed it as much as he did, but…he frowns.

“Why don’t you just sleep here?”

He hears San Lang’s footsteps stop.

“In your shrine? Can I?” The young man questions, turning around. “I wouldn’t want to intrude…”

Xie Lian smiles softly, nodding up at him, “It’s probably not as nice as what you’re used to, but it gets cold here during the nights, so it’s better than some…cave…”

He trails off when he feels San Lang lean close—so close, his hair brushes against Xie Lian’s cheek as he—leans over to pick up the god’s back of scraps, pulling them over his shoulder.

Right.

“As long as you don’t mind,” he smiles, following Xie Lian down the stone path.

Crickets sing gently in the night, and Xie Lian doesn’t need help walking up the front steps—they’re far too familiar to him now.

“San Lang? Are you alright?”

The young man has paused in the doorframe, staring down at those very steps.

“…Yes,” he murmurs, stepping over the threshold. “Where should I sleep?”

After all—it’s already quite late into the night, and Xie Lian…

Seems more fatigued, than the young man would have expected.

“Oh, there’s only one bed, so…” The prince laughs, a little awkwardly.

“We’ll have to share. Unless that makes you uncomfortable! I can—”

“It’s fine,” San Lang replies with ease, setting the bag of scraps down by the door, so that Xie Lian can look through them later. “I don’t mind.”

There was a time when he absolutely did mind.

When he would insist on sleeping on those shrine steps, even when the snow started to come down. Only tempted inside by Xie Lian calling to him, pleading that he was cold.

Hua Cheng is old enough to understand now, that the prince was pretending for his sake.

He drops down onto the bamboo mat, watching as his god goes about getting ready to rest. Slipping his bamboo hat down onto the counter, coming over to sit down beside him as he fiddles with his boots, carefully slipping them off of his feet.

He’s too trusting.

Xie Lian can defend himself against many things. Mortal and god alike—but there are still things in this world that can harm him.

Hua Cheng could harm him, if his intentions were different.

‘You need to guard yourself more,’ he thinks—but doesn’t dare say.

‘What if I wasn’t here?’

But—he hasn’t been here.

For eight centuries, through hell only knows what sort of pain, he hasn’t been there.

“I’m sorry, the place is a little rundown,” Xie Lian murmurs, sitting up and reaching for the pin holding his hair up into a small half-bun.

It’s only when he feels the slight breeze of exposed air against his ankle that he stiffens, clapping his hand over the shackle there.

Knowing that he has to be careful—because no matter how comfortable San Lang’s presence might be—he’s still mortal, as far as Xie Lian knows.

But if San Lang saw—he doesn’t say a word about it, simply replying—

“I think it’s perfect—just missing a thing or two, but then you’ll be up and running.”

Xie Lian thinks that over, rubbing his chin. “I think I got pretty much everything I needed today…”

San Lang raises an eyebrow, watching as the prince combs his fingers through his hair—too tired to bother with a comb for one evening.

“What about a divine statue?”

Xie Lian pauses, his cheeks a little warm.

He’d…forgotten the most important part, hadn’t he?

“…I have paper and paint somewhere,” Xie Lian smiles, “I’ll try and put something together tomorrow.”

If not—he could always make a tapestry. Not exactly the normal medium for such a thing, but he could certainly manage that.

“I’m somewhat artistic,” San Lang offers.

“I could give it a try.”

“Ah, that’s very kind, but…” Xie Lian waves that idea off gently, “You would have to know what the prince looks like.”

San Lang’s answer comes so easily—it startles him.

“I do.”

The god pauses, slowly turning his chin in San Lang’s direction.

“Weren’t we speaking of him earlier on the cart?” San Lang reminds him gently. “I know the Flower Crowned Martial God.”

Xie Lian’s throat tightens, not having heard someone use that title in who knows how long.

“…you really know of him?” The prince murmurs.

“I do,” the young man replies, watching the glimpse of happiness he sees in Xie Lian’s gaze. Cautiously hopeful.

“And what do you think of him?”

Telling Xie Lian exactly hat he thought, at this stage—it seems like to much too son.

So, San Lang opts for something less intimate.

He rolls onto his back, folding his arms behind his head. “That the Heavenly Emperor must really hate him,” he murmurs, glaring at the ceiling of the shrine.

Xie Lian raises an eyebrow, shrugging out of his outer robe. What an…interesting sentiment.

“Why do you think that?”

“Why else would he banish him twice?”

“…” Xie Lian slips the robe the rest of the way from his shoulders, shaking his head.

What a childish way of thinking—but then again, San Lang is rather young.

“When people are wrong, they have to be punished,” the prince murmurs.

“They don’t learn otherwise.”

And heavens, did the Crown Prince of Xianle have so much to learn. It mortifies him at times, to remember how naive and carefree he was back then. How arrogant he must have seemed.

“The Heavenly Emperor was only doing his duty,” Xie Lian shrugs.

“I’m sure that the crown prince doesn’t blame him.” He reaches over, handing San Lang a blanket, “Here—it’s already late, we should rest.”

The young man nods obediently, watching as the god lays down, pulling his outer robe over himself as a blanket, slowly drifting off.

‘Maybe he should.’

That’s what Hua Cheng wants to say, but doesn’t dare now. Not so soon.

He sighs, closing his eyes for a moment, entering the password to Yin Yu’s communication array—just to ensure that the festival went off without incident, which it did.

Next, he enters another private array—one that used to include others, but now only two remain.

‘Progress?’

‘He’s trying to build a new lair in Quan Yizhen’s territory,’ Shuo replies calmly. From the creaking Hua Cheng can hear in the background—he’s in one of his forests.

‘But I’m probably going to push him East.’

Understandable. The martial god of the west is rather unpredictable, and while Hua Cheng doesn’t feel wariness in dealing with him, Shuo hasn’t developed to that point.

‘Have you already begun?’

‘He should be falling into the trap in three…two…’

There’s a loud, wailing shriek in the background, and Shuo lets out a surprised chuckle.

‘Ah, he was a little early this time.’

‘How is his demeanor?’

Hua Cheng doesn’t consider Qi Rong worth dealing with directly anymore.

He’s weak enough where it’s a struggle for the Ghost King not to kill him accidentally, if he’s too irritated, and, well…

Shuo’s version of handling him is far more amusing.

But the younger ghost doesn’t sound smug when he replies.

‘Unstable.’ Then, after a pause—

‘Xuan Ji was completely out of control herself, even under his orders. Something’s happening, gege. Everyone’s unsettled.’

Hua Cheng lets out a low sigh, witching the ceiling of the shrine with a cold, impassive gaze.

‘It might be that time.’

There’s a tense silence.

Hua Cheng effectively selected the last Ghost King, through his actions with He Xuan on Mount Tonglu. Most aren’t aware of that, but if the Kiln does open again soon—

They’ve already discussed the possibility of what they would do, if Qi Rong tries to become a calamity.

But those plans aren’t for anyone else’s ears. Not at the moment.

‘Keep pushing him east. If anything else noteworthy happens, contact me.’

There’s a pause, more screams from Qi Rong, and then—

‘Yes, gege.’

The array goes silent, and the Ghost King is left to his thoughts.

Xie Lian’s breathing is gentle and even, only broken by the occasional shiver as the wind blows through the gaps in the wooden siding on the side of the shrine.

He wasn’t wrong—it does get cold at night. Hua Cheng will have to deal with that tomorrow.

Still—he hasn’t needed to keep warm from the cold in centuries, and as such, he’s quick to take the blanket that Xie Lian gave him before, carefully spreading it over the god’s sleeping form.

Still, when the youth’s fingertips brush against Xie Lian’s cheek—his skin is cold.

He’s reminded of the first time Xie Lian left Puqi, after his death—collapsing in a ditch, shivering from the cold, and no matter how hard Hong’er tried to help—

A ghost fire burns cold.

At first, his intentions really were completely pure.

Because it’s a simple matter, increasing the temperature of his own body, turning it into the equivalent of a small furnace, allowing that warmth to radiate towards the prince, making him more comfortable.

And watching those shivers slow and stop—it makes him smile.

Because even if there are plenty of things that Hua Cheng can’t do, can’t be for his god right now—he can keep him warm. And that—that’s more than he could do before.

That was all he was thinking of, in the beginning.

Before Xie Lian rolled over in his sleep with a soft sigh.

Hua Cheng watches, eyes slightly wide, as the god unconsciously squirms towards that source of warmth, until he—

Until he’s face first against Hua Cheng’s chest, their legs bumping against one another, breaths coming out soft and slow against the ghost king’s tunic.

Oh.

Hua Cheng has dreamt of this so many times, he’s lost count of the nights. Wondering if that was really how it would feel, to have his god in his arms. If the weight of him would really be so intoxicating. Or if his breath would really sound that musical against the air.

And—

Xie Lian sighs, turning his head until his cheek presses closer against Hua Cheng’s chest, legs curling in slightly.

—it does.

The Ghost King was never living under the impression that he was a good person. He always knew that he was selfish.

A shameless child, a reckless teenager—and now, a selfish man.

‘I’m a horrible person,’ he thinks to himself, wrapping one arm around the prince’s back, encouraging him to press as close as he wants.

In doing so, Hua Cheng allows the warmth emanating from him to flare, which only draws Xie Lian in like a moth to a flame.

Until their legs are intertwined, and his face is pressed into the Ghost King’s shoulder, sighing contentedly.

Slowly, Hua Cheng presses his face into his God’s hair, taking a slow, contented breath.

A horrible fucking person. And Xie Lian—he’s too trusting.

His other arm comes around the prince now, cradling him close.

But that’s fine.

He’s here now, and he’ll—

He’ll keep him safe.

His fingertips slip up the god’s back, rubbing slow, meaningless patterns—gently pushing his hair to the side, finding the chain at the nape of his neck.

‘You would be happy, if you knew Hong-er was holding you, right?’

Maybe not for the reasons Hua Cheng would like, but…

He takes that weak justification, and he clings onto it. Uses it to soothe him as he rapidly oscillates between guilt and euphoria, holding Xie Lian close.

And in the end—all the prince knows is that it’s been years—decades, even—since he slept so well.

Then, he wakes up alone.

The God sits up, somewhat groggy, reaching up to rub at his eyes—and he notices two things:

First, his hair is completely smooth, despite the fact that he really didn’t brush it properly the night before—and two, the mat beside him is empty.

And it’s not odd for him to wake up alone. if anything—that’s the norm.

It’s that he didn’t fall asleep that way, and he—

Xie Lian shuts his eyes, squeezing down bad memories, his hands balling up on either side of him.

But when he listens closely, he realizes he isn’t alone.

“…San Lang?” He questions cautiously, fighting to keep his voice even—and the reply that comes back to him is swift, calling from outside.

“Out here, gege!”

Xie Lian swallows dryly, taking in the sound of the young man’s heartbeat, his breathing.

It’s fine. He’s fine.

And—from the sounds of it—he’s chopping wood.

Xie Lian lets out a shaky sigh, forcing himself to calm down as he goes about the process of getting dressed for the day, pulling his hair up once more.

He’s fine.

But when the prince makes his way towards the door, he stops.

When he places his hand upon the altar as he walks by—he notices that there’s something that wasn’t there the night before, hewn from smooth stone.

Actually—to Xie Lian’s surprise—it feels like something close to marble, delicately worked—

Into a statue.

At first, the god doesn’t know what to think—wondering if maybe he had picked one up yesterday during his scrap collecting and simply forgotten about it, but…

The robes the figure is wearing—they feel familiar, and…

In one hand, it clutches a flower—and in the other, a sword.

By the time Xie Lian’s fingers reach the top of the statue’s head—he already half expects to find the crown of flowers sitting there, but still—

His breath catches when he does.

“…San Lang,” he mumbles, walking out through the curtains hung in place of a door.

“Did you carve that statue?”

Xie Lian imagines he must have—after all, there are few divine statues of the Crown Prince of Xianle left intact, and this one felt completely new, devoid of weathering.

The teenager stops, leaning an ax against the log he was using to split wood.

“Do like it?” He questions, watching him closely—and Xie Lian feels a big, warm smile spread across his face.

“Yes—but how did you do that so fast? You never told me that you were an artist—”

“I’m really not,” San Lang waves him off with a smile. “It’s just a hobby, really.”

Xie Lian would beg to differ. It’s not as though he’s been around many divine statues recently—but he knows the work of a skilled artisan when he sees one.

“Surely, someone must have taught you…”

“No,” San Lang murmurs, stretching his arms over his head with a yawn.

“I just practiced a lot when I was growing up,” he shrugs, “I got in trouble fairly often, and when I was punished—there wasn’t much else to do besides practice.”

Confirming Xie Lian’s earlier suspicion that he was a poorly behaved child, but…it’s endearing.

But it’s also just…yet another thing that San Lang is good at, nearly inexplicably so. And…he can’t help but wonder…

The god walks over, making a point of standing just close enough that his arm brushes against the young man’s hair.

“San Lang?”

“Hmm?”

“Your hair—it’s a little messy,” Xie Lian murmurs, knowing it’s a little clumsy, but, well—

It’s the only pretext he could think of, to be honest with you.

“You’ve been so helpful this morning—why don’t you let me brush it for you?”

There’s just a moment of hesitation, but…

“If gege insists,” the young man shrugs, dropping down onto the log he was just using to chop wood, pushing his hair behind his shoulders. “But it’s not necessary.”

“Ah,” Xie Lian smiles, fumbling in his sleeve for a comb, “even if it’s just a small thing, it’s nice to…”

The prince is just beginning to gather San Lang’s hair under his fingers, when he stops, his face suddenly hot.

Eyes wide with mock innocence, the young man glances back over his shoulder. “Is everything alright, gege?”

“Yes, I…just…um…” Xie Lian swallows hard.

“I didn’t realize that you were…ah…”

When he had gone to reach for San Lang’s hair, he hadn’t expected to feel…bare skin underneath his fingertips.

“Oh,” San Lang murmurs, glancing down at his bare torso, “It was rather warm this morning. Have I offended you?”

“Oh, I—no!”

Xie Lian laughs awkwardly, “Why—why would I be offended? I just—I was just surprised, that’s all!”

He fumbles with the comb twice, almost dropping it, trying very hard not to touch the young man’s skin more than he has to—but there’s one detail that can’t be avoided.

San Lang has broad, rather toned shoulders, and Xie Lian’s mouth is very try as he struggles to focus on the task at hand.

Palm lines would be exceedingly hard for a savage ghost to fake, yes—but human hair is such an intimate, intricate detail—it’s nearly impossible to imitate.

After all—it would require the ghost to change every individual hair—and doing that effectively would require an incredible amount of power.

And given how sensitive his fingertips are, he should be able to detect the smallest flaw in the disguise, but…

He doesn’t find any.

“Gege?” San Lang questions, his feet stretched out in front of him—leaning back until the god jumps, allowing the young man to lean back against his chest rather than fall over, face tilted back to smirk up at him. “Are you really just brushing my hair?”

“I—Of course!”

Xie Lian sputters, eyes squeezing a little more tightly shut as he fumbles around, working San Lang’s hair into a loose, slightly messy braid before letting it go once more. “See? That’s—ah, that’s better, isn’t it? Now, I, um…are you hungry? Of course you are, you must be…”

He mumbles, briefly putting his hands on Hua Cheng’s shoulders—if only to help him sit up properly before he flees a few steps back, his mind frantically trying to think of something he could put together for breakfast, when it occurs to him—

“Oh—and why were you chopping wood?”

San Lang rises to his feet with an easy going smile, “Oh—I thought your talismans might work a little better with something like this.”

Xie Lian doesn’t know what he means at first—just hears the sound of something wide and heavy being moved into place.

Then, after a few strikes from what sounds like a hammer, San lang leads him over, and Xie Lian is guided to press his palm against…

“You made me a door?” The prince questions, somewhat incredulous.

He carved a divine statue and built what feels like a very high quality door—all in the time before Xie Lian woke up?

“You took me in,” the teenager shrugs, clasping his hands behind his back. “I wanted to make myself useful.”

Then, after a moment of watching Xie Lian’s expression, he adds, “…Do you like it?”

It’s not a matter of like or dislike, it’s the fact that…

Xie Lian genuinely forgot what it was like to have someone be so generous with him—simply for the sake of it.

There was a time in his life when he might have distrusted it—or simply waited for his bad luck to take the moment away from him, but now…

Xie Lian turns his head to look up at San Lang with a wide, happy smile.

“It was so thoughtful of you, San Lang—I love it, thank you!”

It’s the beginning of a different time in one god’s life. Exchanging loneliness for companionship. Sadness for a hopeful sort of happiness.

But, in the Heavenly Realm above—other gods are also going through changes.

Some of them far less pleasant.

“Shi Qingxuan,” the elder brother’s vocal is tinged with disapproval, “You’re being ridiculous.”

“…” The Wind Master huffs, crossing his arms as he leans against the balcony overlooking the edges of the heavens, staring down at the world below. “You didn’t even invite me.”

A far cry from the small, frightened child that he used to be—the younger of the Shi Brothers has grown into a handsome, charming young man. Long, perfectly styled waves falling down his back, eyes always bright with laughter.

Except for times like this—when he’s sulking.

Shi Wudu rolls his eyes, fiddling with one of his earrings, twisting the sapphire between his thumb and forefinger. “You have never once expressed interest in coming along to the mortal realm with me before.”

“Maybe not,” The Wind Master admits. “But you always ask me.”

Between the two of them, Shi Qingxuan has always been down in the mortal realm far more frequently. Chasing adventure, or simply dragging that simple little friend of his on wild goose chases.

Shi Wudu rarely descends, and when he does—it’s usually to deal with mundane matters.

“I assumed you wouldn’t want to go,” the elder brother shrugs. “I was assisting in one of Pei’s patrols, and you can’t stand the man anyway.”

Shi Qingxuan’s eyes narrow at the mere mention of him. “You’ve never helped someone with a patrol before,” he mumbles, “Why now?”

The Water Master looks away from his brother for a moment, eyeing the other gods and goddesses walking down the central avenue of the heavens. “It never hurts to have powerful people owing you favors. Maybe you should learn that, and start playing nice.”

It’s a little bit hypocritical for Shi Wudu of all people to be saying that—after all, between the two of them, Shi Qingxuan is beloved by the heavens all over—

The only one he really has a problem with is Ming Guang.

“Would you have gone, if I asked?”

“…Probably not,” Shi Qingxuan admits, crossing his arms.

“Then there’s isn’t an issue,” Shi Wudu shrugs. “Honestly, I don’t have time to indulge whatever petty grudge you hold against the man.”

“You’re not even a martial god,” his little brother’s frown depends.

“What could he need you on a patrol for?”

Shi Wudu arches an eyebrow, lifting his fan from his sleeve.

There are six elemental masters, by rule: Earth, Water, Wind, Fire, and Lightning and Rain.

But with one flick of his wrist, Shi Wudu easily displays a well known fact—Raising a rogue wave, the height of several palaces, and sending it towards a small fleet of ships in the mortal realm, swallowing them in an instant.

(Pirates, for the most part.)

Of all of the Elemental Masters in the heavens, The Water Master is by far the strongest.

As a matter of fact, even among martial gods, he’s respected for his strength.

“Not all of us use our gifts to throw parties and toss around merit credits as charity,” he glares.

“And as far as I can recall, General Pei has never actually done something to warrant your behavior.”

“He’s practically forced Pei Xiu over all of the other deputy gods in the middle court, even though he hasn’t ascended himself,” Shi Qingxuan points out, clicking his tongue.

“And this whole Xuan Ji business—”

“You were also a member of the middle court once, with a higher god as your benefactor,” Shi Wudu reminds him coldly. “Hypocrisy isn’t a good look on you.”

Shi Qingxuan huffs. “I know that! But I actually ascended, and Pei Xiu hasn’t!”

Shi Wudu falls silent, his gaze…complicated.

After all, there’s no way of actually knowing whether or not Shi Qingxuan’s ascension was natural, or a result of the…

But Shi Wudu won’t bother justifying Pei’s every act to his little brother, he isn’t the man’s keeper.

In any case—he’s somewhat aware of the actual reason for Shi Qingxuan’s resentment: jealousy.

And acknowledging and addressing that would mean, in turn, acknowledging why the Water Master’s friendship with Pei would make Shi Qingxuan feel that way.

He isn’t willing to to that.

“…I don’t need you to like the people I associate with,” Shi Wudu mutters, wiping a hand down his face. “But someday you might be glad that Pei counts me as a friend.”

The Wind Master scoffs, looking away. “As if I’d ever—!”

“If something ever happened to me, he would feel obligated to look after you.” Shi Wudu cuts him off flatly. “And you would be left with a powerful ally in the Heavenly Court. Ling Wen too. So, you can turn your nose up at it for now—but you might be grateful one day.”

Shi Qingxuan stops, giving his brother an odd look, eyes pinched with worry. “…Happened to you?” He questions.

His older brother has never said anything like that before.

“Are you worried about something?”

“Other than you irritating me to death?” The water master mutters.

“Not particularly.”

But the next words out of Shi Qingxuan’s mouth make him stop.

“Besides, if something ever happened to you—I have Ming-Xiong. And even if I didn’t—the Emperor would look after me. You’re basically his favorite, everyone knows that.”

The Wind Master rattles the words off thoughtlessly—then stops, when he sees the look on his brother’s face.

How pale he’s gotten.

“…Gege?” He questions, raising an eyebrow. “What’s wrong?”

The Water Master doesn’t answer immediately, his expression tense.

And before he even begins to try—a familiar voice echoes from over Shi Qingxuan’s shoulder.

“Shi Wudu, there you are,” Ling Wen murmurs, dark circles ever present beneath her eyes. “I trust your trip to the mortal realm went well?”

The Water Master reluctantly lifts his gaze from his brother to offer her a stiff nod. “Yes, I was able to examine several of my more recently built temples while I was down there.”

“I’m sure General Ming Guang was glad for the help,” the Civil Goddess smiles politely.

“In any case, I’m glad I ran into you—you’ve been summoned to the Imperial residence. I’m already headed in that direction myself—walk with me?”

Shi Qingxuan spreads his hands, like Ling Wen just proved his point.

A personal summons from Jun Wu—to his “favorite.”

Without looking at him, Shi Wudu nods, pushing away from the balcony, turning his back on the human realm once more. “Very well.”

The start to walk off, side by side, and the Water Master calls over his shoulder, “Shi Qingxuan.”

The younger glances up, eyes curious, “Yes?”

His brother gives a firm look, his eyes stern, “Don’t cause any trouble while I’m busy, understood?”

“…” Shi Qingxuan huffs, crossing his arms, whisk flicking casually between his fingers. “I never do!”

The walk towards the imperial residence is mostly silent.

That in itself isn’t odd—Ling Wen isn’t the type for initialing conversations, and he isn’t one for small talk, but…

Eventually, quietly, she murmurs, “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

The Water Master stares straight ahead, the set of his shoulders suddenly tense.

“If you want a proper answer, you’re going to have to be more specific.”

The Civil Goddess waits until they’ve passed a crowd of wandering junior officials, her voice low. “As things stand, you enjoy the emperor’s favor…”

Ah, yes—Jun Wu’s precious ‘favoritism.’

“…whatever is going on between Jun Wu and Pei Ming,” Ling Wen reasons carefully, “you don’t want to be in the middle. It won’t end well.”

For as long as Shi Wudu has been a god, Ling Wen and Pei Ming have been his closest friends in the Heavenly Court. His only friends, really.

Even in the beginning, there was a flirtatious edge to his relationship with Pei Ming—but nothing came of it. Not for several centuries. In part, because Shi Wudu knew it wasn’t something he could take back, if he started it.

And because he knew he wouldn’t want to.

But Ling Wen—she always seemed keenly aware of something about Shi Wudu—something that no one else ever seemed to notice, or take into account. Something that he himself often forgot—

Just how young he was.

And while she’s never condescended, occasionally, she can be….

Protective.

But in this case, she’s wrong.

Shi Wudu isn’t the one caught in the middle.

“…You know,” the younger god muses, watching as the approach the imperial residence, “of everyone in the Heavenly Court, your position is probably the most secure.”

After all, she’s capable—and Jun Wu will never dispose of someone that does the work he isn’t inclined to do.

Ling Wen doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t need to.

They both know Shi Wudu is correct.

“I’ve always envied you for that,” he mutters, shaking his head.

Shi Wudu is all too aware of how much work Ling Wen does. How thankless and grueling it is.

He would still take all of that, over the things he’s done to maintain his own position.

The Civil Goddess frowns, concerned. “I—”

“I’m assuming he asked for a private audience?”

“…He did,” she agrees reluctantly, hiking her scrolls underneath her arms.

The Water Master’s expression is smooth, bored—almost as though he’s been summoned by a school teacher, rather than the leader of the heavens.

“Then I suppose we can’t afford to keep him waiting, hmm?”

She watches, her lips pursed, as Shi Wudu ascends the steps to the imperial palace, shutting the doors behind him.

The first time the Water Master came here, he was a newly ascended god. A young man of twenty years old—and the sight of it used to leave him awestruck.

Golden floors and ceilings, heavy curtains of silk, windows that show visions of the mortal world below. They’ll show you anything you want to see, if you only give them the proper incantation.

But now, those windows are blank—and the air is tense.

“…You summoned me?”

“How was your little trip to the mortal realm?” He can see the shape of Jun Wu, sitting behind one of the silk curtains that partitions the entrance of his residence from one of the sitting areas.

“Not particularly special.”

(The nights, however, were spectacular.)

“You didn’t ask me before leaving.”

From Shi Qingxuan, it was a childish, petulant complaint. One stemming from insecurity and jealousy—worried at the idea of sharing his elder brother’s attention with someone else.

From Jun Wu, it isn’t so harmless.

“Do I need your permission to leave the heavens now?” Shi Wudu questions flatly, “That would be a rather startling development.”

“And you’re defensive,” the emperor muses. The Water Master watches the shape of his head turn slightly beyond the curtain. “How disappointing.”

Shi Wudu doesn’t respond at first, his eyes slightly narrowed.

“Of all of the people to be swayed by that man’s platitudes,” Jun Wu sighs, lifting a wine glass to his lips. “I really thought you were too intelligent for that.”

“Clearly not,” the younger man replies flatly.

“I was swayed by you, wasn’t I?”

Silence follows, and Shi Wudu is more than aware of the fact that it wasn’t the correct thing to say, silently berating himself for not holding his tongue—

“Come here.”

His tone is soft—but not out of gentleness.

There’s an underlying threat, like a snake in the grass.

He makes his way over, and doesn’t say a word when the emperor catches him by the wrist, dragging him down.

“Sometimes, it’s like you think I enjoy this.”

Shi Wudu doesn’t reply, glaring at the ceilings above.

Jun Wu doesn’t pin him down. He doesn’t need to. Just the grip on his twist is enough to keep the Water Master locked in place on the chaise lounge, unable to move an inch.

“I go through all of this effort, raising you so high…” The emperor trails off with an irritated sigh.

“And you won’t even listen.”

It’s all a lie, of course.

Other than teaching the Water Master how to switch fates—Jun Wu hasn’t done much more than publicly show him favor.

Shi Wudu cultivated on his own. Ascended on his own. Faced two heavenly calamities on his own.

And yet.

Every accomplishment has felt tainted. Claimed by someone else, like they don’t even belong to him anymore.

“You saw what became of Xuan Ji,” Jun Wu muses, “Do you really think he won’t discard you, the moment he realizes what you actually are?”

Shi Wudu knows as much.

He as forced to reconcile himself to it long before now. And to the fact that, as miserable as it is, there’s only one person on heaven and earth who knows the truth of his character—and accepts it.

Jun Wu.

“You say that like you won’t do the same thing,” he mutters.

“I’m honestly surprised you even remember I exist, after the Crown Prince of Xianle came back. Oh—or maybe that’s it?” He muses. “He jumped back down to earth, so now you’re back to—”

/CRACK!/

The slap is violent, but Jun Wu’s tone is gentle.

“Oh, poor, poor Water Master…”

He trails off, stroking his thumb over the space where Shi Wudu’s lip is now split, blood trailing down.

There won’t be a mark, by the time he leaves here.

There never is.

But words leave deeper scars than that.

“Do you really think I would ever treat Xianle like this?”

Jun Wu muses, his eyes glancing him over.

“Do you think he ever would have placed himself in such a position?”

No, no, he—

Shi Wudu turns his face away, glaring at the back of the couch, his posture screaming that of wounded pride, but…

His eyes sting, and his lips tremble.

He wouldn’t have.

And Jun Wu isn’t wrong. That’s exactly why he treats Shi Wudu differently.

Because they’re accomplices. And if Shi Wudu ever said a word, tried to explain to anyone what they had done—

No one would believe him.

He knew that, when they made their deal.

Jun Wu warned him of as much.

Has constantly reminded the Water God over the years, of how many opportunities he’s had to say, ‘no.’

And yet, in moments like this—the word ‘no’ is robbed from his vocabulary. Locked behind layers of intimidation ad shame.

Even so, Shi Wudu couldn’t say that it’s unfair, or that he doesn’t deserve it.

That these private moments of hell aren’t the price he pays for his own pride—and the crimes he committed to pull himself—and his brother—up this far.

Even when it feels like he wants to crawl out of his own skin, Shi Wudu can’t manage to think that he hasn’t earned it.

That he doesn’t deserve to feel this way.

Jun Wu stares down at him, his gaze cold—brimming with annoyance.

It wasn’t always so difficult.

The Water Master is as beautiful now as he ever was. Silky dark hair, hateful eyes that burn an enchanting shade of cerulean.

But he’s changed in the last century or so. Turned soft and spoiled by the attentions of a frivolous, vapid man.

Jun Wu never particularly disliked Pei Ming. Always found that the martial god served his purposes well, and never saw reason to lash out at him. The General knew his place—and his ambitions were never above his station.

But no one is perfect, and Pei has his own fatal flaw:

He has a penchant for touching things that do not belong to him.

And now, even after his energies are spent, and the Water Master is firmly back under his thumb—resentment remains.

So, naturally—it only seems fair that Jun Wu should take something of Pei’s, next.

If there’s one thing that Xie Lian had forgotten in the last eight centuries—it’s how much faster work goes by when you have help.

He had expected to need a month—maybe two in order to renovate his shrine completely.

But with San Lang?

It’s done in a matter of days.

Sure, it’s not the looming temples of gold and marble that Xie Lian used to have dedicated to him when he was a child, but—

Somehow, he thinks he likes this better.

And San Lang is the most pleasant company he’s had in some time.

He’s playful, and often a tease—but also rather attentive. Far more so than what Xie Lian is used to. And there are moments when…

When he’ll stumble on the path back to the shrine, only to be caught with ease—or when he hears San Lang calling ‘Gege!’ From out front…

And he’s reminded, over and over, of the boy who looked after him just when he’d lost everything. The smile it draws to his face each time is bittersweet, but he’s grateful for the ache of it.

Xie Lian knows he’ll have to go home eventually—but this is nice, while it lasts.

It’s the beginning of autumn—with warm afternoons and cooler evenings. And yet Xie Lian always wakes up pleasantly warm, his body relaxed.

San Lang has noticed how tense the god gets in the mornings when he isn’t nearby—and he’s questioned it, but Xie Lian has never explained.

He always smiles calmly when the young man asks, and says something along the lines of:

‘I’m just being silly, San Lang—don’t worry about it.’

But now—he always makes sure to be in earshot whenever Xie Lian wakes up, and the god is sheepish, but…silently grateful.

And on days like this, Xie Lian will sit by his loom, working out a new pattern, listening as a few worshippers from the village come filtering in to give their offerings.

(The farmer did not keep silent about what happened that night, despite Xie Lian’s request.)

San Lang is just outside, leaning against the temple steps, taking a rest from mending the roof. Young women from the village often stop by to bring him a drink of water, or an extra bit of lunch from their own tables.

He always smiles politely in thanks—but usually passes the food on to Xie Lian before they’ve even left, which leaves the god feeling a little sorry for them.

Several of the farmers have already asked Xie Lian if San Lang happens to be looking for a wife, as a matter of fact.

Usually with their daughters in mind—and the mention always leaves Xie Lian slightly startled. He tells them that, as far as he knows—San Lang isn’t, but they’re welcome to ask him for themselves.

But the youth rarely shows any interest in such things what-so-ever.

He spends his time trailing after Xie Lian, telling him fascinating stories—laughing with him, splitting buns of Mantou on the temple steps as they enjoy the breeze.

And right now, while Xie Lian works at his loom, San Lang reclines out front as local children play nearby.

“Hey, gege…” one of them calls over to him, stopping to pick up the ball they’ve been kicking back and forth when it rolls close to the shrine. “Have you been praying in the shrine too?”

San Lang doesn’t open his eyes, arms propped behind his head as he lays back in the grass.

“That’s right,” he murmurs, legs crossed as he enjoys the sun—like a cat stretched out beneath a window.

“And it’s for the…flower god,” One of the boy mumbles, scrunching his face up as he tries to remember.

Honestly, Xie Lian is pleased that he remembered the flower part.

“The Flower Crowned Martial God,” San Lang corrects him softly.

“What kind of Martial God wears flowers?” Another child pipes up, baffled by the thought. “Shouldn’t he have armor or something?”

San Lang’s reply makes Xie Lian’s fingers go still, his face flushing.

“The beautiful ones,” he answers smoothly, “and he doesn’t need any armor.”

“Cause he’s just that strong?” A little boy questions, eyes wide, and San Lang hums in agreement.

The beautiful ones.

Xie Lian has been called beautiful many times in his life, but rarely…

Rarely has it ever made his heart skip a beat.

And it wouldn’t be entirely accurate to say that Xie Lian has never worn armor. He did, during the war against Yong’an—but only at Feng Xin’s insistence. In the end, it only ever seemed to slow him down.

“Was he from Yong’an?”

“Nope,” San Lang shakes his head, plucking a long blade of grass from the ground, placing it between his teeth.

“Xuli, then?”

It’s a sweet conversation, to be sure, but…bittersweet for Xie Lian to listen to.

After all—no one wants their home to be completely forgotten.

“If you’ll sit still and be quiet for a moment, I’ll tell you.”

That seems to make all of the children nearby snap to attention, their eyes wide with curiosity. Xie Lian finds himself listening closely—curious to see how accurate it will be.

No one ever gets it right anymore.

But when San Lang actually begins to speak…

“Long ago, in the central plains,” he murmurs, his voice carrying easily through the open yard before the temple, “there was a kingdom known as Xianle.”

The god stops weaving once more, his fingers growing still.

“Xianle was vast and powerful—but known for having four great treasures; beautiful women, prized music and literature—gold and gems beyond compare. But, above all else was their Crown Prince.”

Xie Lian’s lips press together tightly, listening to him speak, hands suddenly wobbly.

“He cherished his people, and in return—he was beloved by all.”

The way San Lang tells it—there’s such a fondness to his voice, one that Xie Lian struggles to comprehend.

San Lang doesn’t open his eyes, but the corner of his mouth quirks up, one dimple making an appearance.

“Tale of his valor were often told.”

The group of children lean closer now, some of them sitting down to listen, their attention rapt.

“He once saved a falling child on Martial Deity Avenue.”

Xie Lian’s hand flies up to the chain around his neck instantly, his throat tight.

The only part of Hong-er’s story that is well known—and often, he was blamed for falling off of that city wall. Like his interrupting the parade somehow brought misfortune on the kingdom.

The prince is happy that he’s remembered, yes—but not like that.

“And vanquished a demon with dazzling skill on Yi Nian bridge.”

That tale is a little better known, but the way San Lang says the words ‘dazzling skill,’ he…there’s a breathless tone of admiration to it, and…

Xie Lian can’t remember the last time someone spoke of him that way

“The Heavenly Emperor saw great potential in this crown prince. And thus, he ascended at a very young age.”

He speaks with emphasis on the word ‘very,’ and Xie Lian pauses, leaning back from his loom with a pensive expression.

He really was young back then, wasn’t he?

Actually, it’s startling, because Xie Lian has made a point, over and over, of the fact that San Lang is still rather young, but…

Xie Lian was younger than him, when he ascended. Actually—by the standards of Xianle, he hadn’t even been of age.

A child, and a god.

Back then, he’d been baffled by his parents sadness in the beginning. Of course, they would miss him. He missed them—but wasn’t ascension always the goal? Hadn’t they been prepared for it?

But later, Xie Lian understood.

They had been prepared to say goodbye to a grown man, one who had already had the chance to live his life with them.

They hadn’t been prepared to say goodbye to their child.

A seventeen year old, who, in the end…knew very little of the world—and it’s cruelty.

The thing that seems so strange about it now, is that Xie Lian doesn’t recall being eager to grow up. Eager to become a god, yes, but…

It wasn’t until Jun Wu singled him out, raising him so high above the other martial gods, that Xie Lian felt so desperate to seem grown up.

Now, he wishes he had been kinder to himself. A little gentler with his own expectations.

Maybe if he had, he wouldn’t have made so many mistakes.

The children still sit eagerly around San Lang now, asking more and more questions about the Flower Crowned Martial God.

Asking about his strength, his beauty, and Xie Lian is left listening to San Lang humming words of affirmation until his ears have gone completely red, when—

“MR. PRIEST!”

The god stiffens as he hears several villagers crying out—and the sound of someone being dragged.

When Xie Lian rises to his feet, he listens as several men from the village drag a limp figure inside, his feet dragging across the floor, sand pouring from his boots, his robes, all over.

“Please help him, Mr. Priest! He’s dying!”

Dying?

Xie Lian frowns, making room so that they can lay him down on the floor inside the shrine. “What happened, sir? Can you hear me?”

He smells like travel—carrying scents of foreign soil, his shirt gritty from the sand.

“It’s…the…the pass!” The stranger rasps, eyes wide.

Xie Lian raises an eyebrow, kneeling down beside him, “Pass? What pass?”

From what he can tell, the man seems like a cultivator himself—one of moderate level. Now, he reaches up, grasping Xie Lian’s wrist tightly, clinging as he whimpers—

“The Crescent Moon Pass!”

/BANG!/

The cultivator jumps, slightly startled by the sound—only to see a young man in maple robes sitting by the table, having slammed his palm onto the wooden surface with some force, eyes flashing menacingly until he lets the blind Taoist go.

If Xie Lian notices the exchange, he doesn’t comment on it, focused far more intently on what the man is saying.

“What about the Crescent Moon Pass? What happened to you there?”

“I…” The cultivator swallows hard, coughing up more sand. “I-It’s a dangerous route for most…”

“A group of merchants hired me and a few others to escort them through safely…t…there were sixty of us, originally, but…” The cultivator sinks back down, wheezing. “I-I’m the only one who survived…”

One out of sixty?

That’s enough to raise Xie Lian’s brow with concern.

But before he can ask more, San Lan speaks up, his tone slightly sharp.

“You traveled all the way here from Crescent Pass by yourself?” The teenager questions, flipping a chopstick between his fingers. “In that state?”

The cultivator nods vehemently, “To get help!”

“I almost didn’t make it!”

San Lang raises a cup of tea to his lips with a shrug, his eyes never leaving the traveler, watching him rather closely. “I see.”

“…” Xie Lian raises to his feet, moving to the basin by the corner, pouring a cup of water for their guest.

“You must be thirsty after traveling all that way,” the god smiles kindly, kneeling down beside him once more as he offers the cup. “Here, drink.”

The cultivator stares, somewhat hesitant—and from behind him, San Lang twirls his chopsticks with a little bit more aggression.

“There’s no need to be shy,” the teenager intones flatly, watching him with a sharp gaze.

Of course—the fact that a man who supposedly just ran for his life all the way from the desert would hesitate when being offered water is suspicious enough, but…

Xie Lian listens closely.

He noticed fairly early on that there was something not quite right with the man—after all, for being as psychically and mentally distressed as he claimed to be, his breathing and heart rate were completely unaffected.

At first, he suspected a ghost wearing a human skin.

After all, any savage rank ghost could probably manage something like that—and after the Xuan Ji incident, Ling Wen did warn him to be on his guard.

But now, listening to the hollow sound the water makes inside the cultivator’s chest, it becomes clear that this is no such thing.

He seems to be trying to make a show out of it, thirstily gulping down several swallows—until a hand wraps around his wrist in an iron grip, and he looks up to see the white robed god smiling down at him.

“There’s no need to pretend if you can’t drink it, is there?”

Instantly, the situation shifts as the cultivator glares, coiling in Xie Lian’s grip, pulling a sword from it’s sheathe, but…

Before he can even lift it in attack, the prince gives the blonde one sharp flick, sending it spiraling out of the cultivator’s grip with a clatter.

The blade buries itself deep into the ground, and the grip the god has on the cultivator’s wrist is still like iron.

“Now,” Xie Lian muses, “who on earth is sending a puppet all the way out here?”

Rather than responding, the creature’s arm goes elastic in Xie Lian’s grip.

Stretching out like a worm as it flees out the shrine doors, clearly trying to make a break for it—

/THWAP!/

There’s a distinct popping sound, like someone popping a balloon, then the sound of it deflating as the puppet collapses to the ground, turning into a mass of clay.

It takes Xie Lian a moment to realize it—but San Lang must have thrown one of the chopsticks he was holding at the creature, piercing it’s form and forcing it to deflate.

The young man strolls over, poking at the remains with his remaining chopstick, tilting his head.

“What an interesting little shell,” he muses, “it would take someone with a high level of magical skill to create something like this.”

Xie Lian nods, making a face when he notices that his hand is now a little sticky, shaking it out and away from his body with disgust.

“You’re pretty informed about magic, aren’t you San Lang?” He muses, only stopping when he feels larger hands grip his own gently, using a wet cloth to wipe the mud from the god’s fingertips.

San Lang shrugs, his touch feather light, “I dabble.”

Xie Lian pauses, his heart a little unsteady, struggling to keep his fingers still under the young man’s touch.

‘…What’s so different about you?’

It’s a thought that’s been going through his head for days now.

“Gege? You alright?”

‘How do you get to me so easily?’

Xie Lian swallows dryly, unintentionally squeezing San Lang’s fingers in response before shaking his head, pulling out of his grip. “Yes, I’m fine—I just need a minute,” he mumbles, turning around to walk back inside.

For something like this—he needs to consult the Heavens.

And—at that very moment—the Heavens are going through a bit of a reckoning.

Not of an unusual sort, this happens about once a month—they were actually slightly overdue for this, so it’s more like nature reasserting itself.

The door to the room swings open with a thud—and when Mu Qing turns around, he’s initially pleased to see that Feng Xin actually answered his summons without needing to be blackmailed, but—

Then he sees the bag in his hand, and his eyes narrow.

“What the fuck is that?”

The Martial God pauses in the doorway to Mu Qing’s library, looking like a deer caught on unawares. “…Isn’t that why you called me here?”

Mu Qing sets down the scroll in his hand, staring at Feng Xin like he’s grown a second head. “What the hell did you think I wanted?!”

“I just…” Feng Xin can admit, it’s wishful thinking. Well. Probably delusional thinking.

And when Mu Qing takes in the dark circles under his eyes and his unusually pale pallor, it’s not hard to believe that the martial god is hallucinating.

“You just? Just what?!”

“The last time we saw each other, I was asking for someone to help out with Xuan Ji, and then…you’ve never asked me to come to your palace…ever, so—”

“You thought I was going to let you STAY here?” Mu Qing sputters incredulously, sure that couldn’t be it, but—

Clearly, Feng Xin really did think that. “No! Obviously not!”

“Mu Qing,” the former guard actually takes on a pleading tone, “I haven’t slept in four days—”

“And? We don’t actually NEED to sleep! Besides, your bizarre phobia of women isn’t my problem!”

“I would do it FOR YOU!”

“No you WOULDN’T!” The martial god rolls his eyes. “And I would never ASK!”

“C’mon, look—” Normally, Feng Xin really is too proud to ask Mu Qing for help for any reason at all—even if they have been in a slightly less combative state lately.

“I’ve tried everything, she only wants Pei Ming. Pei Xiu is NO help at all, Ling Wen isn’t answering my messages—I even got desperate enough to ask the Water Master to take her on, and he laughed me out the door!”

“What did you expect?!”

“I don’t know,” Feng Xin moans, wiping his hands down his face. “Look, Mu Qing—I’ll sleep on the FLOOR—”

“The number of beds isn’t an issue,” the martial god replies flatly, crossing his arms over his chest. “You wouldn’t help me out if she was my problem.”

“I just told you I would!” Feng Xin snaps. “It’s not my fault that you’re a paranoid bastard who doesn’t believe me!”

“Name one time you’ve helped me out before!”

“You’ve never asked! And if this is about the other thing—I can sleep on the opposite side of the palace!”

The mention of the ‘other thing’ was obviously a mistake. It makes Mu Qing’s eyes flash at him menacingly, narrowing into a glare, and Feng Xin…

He lets out a sigh, wiping a hand down his face.

“Alright Mu Qing, fine. Why did you send for me?”

“…It’s about his highness.”

That seems to sharpen Feng Xin’s attention immediately, his bag dropping to the floor with a thud as he looks at Mu Qing intently. “What about him?”

Mu Qing hops up on the edge of one of his reading tables, crossing his legs, “I checked in on him.”

When Feng Xin raises an eyebrow—he’s quick to make the statement seem slightly less out of character, “I thought it would be amusing, watching him try and build his own temple. But when I did…there was a young man with him. An odd one.”

The other god frowns.

“What do you mean, ‘odd?’”

Mu Qing shrugs, bouncing one foot as he tilts his head to the side, examining his fingernails—the act only serves to highlight the choker around his throat.

God, Feng Xin hates that stupid little accessory.

“His intentions seem suspect to me.”

“…Suspect?” Feng Xin questions, and Mu Qing sighs, throwing up his hands with a shrug.

“He’s an oddly intelligent, skilled young man who seems to need very little motivation to take his shirt off around the prince.”

That last little tidbit makes Feng Xin’s eyes widen sharply.

“Oh,” Mu Qing adds dryly. “Did I mention he has a preference for red?”

They both stare at each other now, eyes filled with suspicion and concern for their prince, and Feng Xin starts to ask, “You don’t think—?”

Then, the sound of a new voice in the general communication array makes them both stop, their eyes widening.

‘Excuse me,’ Xie Lian’s voice echoes clearly through both of their minds, along with that of many others. ‘Have any of you heard anything about the Half Moon Pass?”

Xie Lian listens closely, his fingertips pressed to his temple—but he never hears much in the way of a response, only excited cries,

“Ten thousand! I got ten thousand! How many did you get?!”

And a subsequent groan—

“Only a hundred! How is that fair!”

Xie Lian frowns, confused, but willing to speak up again in case someone didn’t hear him, ‘Has—?’

“THE WIND MASTER GAVE OUT ANOTHER HUNDRED THOUSAND MERIT CREDITS!”

By that point, the fervor of the gods scrambling to snatch up a share of the prize is so loud, Xie Lian winces.

He doesn’t have much of a choice other than signing out of the general communication array to get away from it, rubbing his head, when he hears one voice—this time much calmer, speaking out in his private array.

‘Your highness, were you asking about the Crescent Moon Pass?’

Xie Lian lets out a low sigh of relief, ‘Ah, yes, Ling Wen—someone sent a puppet to my shrine today mentioning killings that have been going on in that area. I found it rather concerning.’

There’s a pause as he waits for her response—and somehow, it’s even more flat than usual.

‘Your highness, I would leave this matter alone if I were you.’

And then—Xie Lian notices something odd.

There’s a magical aura around any communication array, that which seals the password and keeps spies out. Xie Lian’s, without spiritual powers, has always been weak.

But now, he feels a rush of power forming a barrier, reinforcing his defenses—and he realizes it must be Ling Wen.

“…I heard only half of the travelers who enter the pass survive,” Xie Lian murmurs, “Is that true?”

‘It’s better if we don’t discuss it any further.’

She doesn’t want them to be overheard.

Could the Crescent Moon Pass really be such a sensitive subject in the Heavens?

‘…I understand,’ Xie Lian replies quietly. ‘I won’t say any more.’

‘But if your highness insists on investigating…’ Ling Wen trails off, reluctant.

‘It would be best to do so independently of the Heavens.’

Well, for any other official that might pose a real challenge—but Xie Lian is used to working rather independently with this sort of thing.

“Understood,” he murmurs, severing the connection.

How strange.

In any case—he can’t justify ignoring it. Not when so many have been harmed already—and the Heavens are clearly turning their gaze away from it.

Like they did in Gusu.

“…San Lang?” He calls, listening as the young man returns to his side, “I’ll be going away for a while.”

The young man raises an eyebrow, reaching into his trouser pocket and pulling out a long length of white bandage, casually wrapping it around his left forearm. “If that’s the case—do you mind bringing me along?”

Xie Lian pauses, unsure.

“…It could be very dangerous, San Lang,” he murmurs, his expression tinged with worry. He’s mortal, after all—and while Xie Lian would protect him, there’s always a risk… “Are you sure?”

The teenager hums in confirmation. “If it’s that dangerous, you shouldn’t go alone, gege.”

Xie Lian cracks a small smile, endeared by the young man’s care as he reaches over, placing a hand on San Lang’s shoulder. “You’re very kind to worry, San Lang—but I can look after myself.”

He wasn’t expecting a broad, warm hand to cover his own.

“You shouldn’t have to.”

The god pauses, a little startled—and suddenly hyper aware of how close they are, the warmth of San Lang’s body emanating invitingly.

And it seems a little silly that, after everything he only just now noticed, but—

Has San Lang been taller than him this entire time?

Xie Lian tilts his chin back slightly—and even if he can’t open his eyes and look at San Lang (it would be pointless to try, anyway)—he’s aware of the fat that the teenager must be watching him rather intently.

He swallows hard. “I…ah…”

/Knock, knock, knock!/

The sound of the knock at the door makes him jump, awkwardly slipping his hand out from underneath San Lang’s, then giving his shoulder a few frantic pats, laughing nervously.

“I should get that!” He mutters, hurrying over to open the door, his heart flopping unsteadily.

And the moment he does, peeking through his eyelashes—he’s met with the familiar sight of two different auras: one earth toned, the other ice blue, one squared out and the other slightly spiked in shape.

“…Nan Feng?” He blinks, surprised, “Fu Yao?”

“We’re here to—” Nan Fang starts, then stops, sputtering as the wind catches in Fu Yao’s hair, blowing his ponytail into his face, “Because we heard—” He chokes a little, trying to bat the hair out of his face, only to get punched in the arm.

“Stop messing with my hair, creep!”

“It’s in my MOUTH, what do you EXPECT me to do?! You should tie it up properly!”

“It’s already tied up, maybe YOU shouldn’t be standing so close to me!” Fu Yao grouses, adjusting his ponytail with a glare, while Xie Lian stands in the background, a bit awkward.

“The two of you…came here because…?”

Suddenly reminded of their primary purpose, they stop fighting, turning back to the prince.

Nan Feng rubs the back of his neck, tamping down his irritation, “We heard you talking about the Crescent Moon Pass—?”

Then, he stops.

“What’s—?”

Nan Feng’s hand grips Xie Lian’s wrist suddenly, yanking the god behind his body—an action that makes the blind cultivator’s guest glare, his eyes flashing with annoyance as the deputy gods leap into action.

“STAY BACK!”

“Your highness, who is this?!”

“Guys…”

Xie Lian speaks up, pressing one palm against Nan Feng’s back, “It’s really fine—”

For a mortal teenager being faced down by two deputy gods holding crackling balls of energy in each a hand, San Lang seems fairly calm—setting down his incense sticks before responding.

“Wow,” he muses, his eyes slightly narrowed as he takes the two newcomers in, a sly smile on his face—but his tone is that of someone completely awestruck, “Such amazing magic—gege, you know these two?”

Fu Yao’s glare intensifies. “You—!”

Xie Lian quickly throws himself between them, holding his hands up, “There’s nothing to be nervous about San Lang, they’re just—”

“Don’t talk to him!” Nan Feng glares, “Besides, he doesn’t seem nervous at all!”

Xie Lian arches an eyebrow, “Do you two know him?”

“…No, we don’t,” Fu Yao glares, crossing his arms.

“Then why are you both overreacting?” Xie Lian smiles, trying to placate them. “He’s my guest, he really isn’t—”

“What’s his full name?” Nan Feng barks, his eyes narrowed.

“How did you meet, where is he from, and why is he here?!”

“San Lang, we ran into each other while I was scrap collecting a few days ago, he got kicked out of his home for the time being, and I invited him to stay with me!” Xie Lian replies quickly. “Could you please calm down?”

Nan Feng doesn’t seem particularly comforted by that, “If you don’t know where he comes from, why would you let him in like that?!”

Fu Yao speaks up now, glancing around. “And if he’s been staying with you, where has he been sleeping?”

“Um…”

After a moment, the deputy god’s eyes widen sharply, “Have you been sleeping TOGETHER?!”

Xie Lian winces, holding his hands up, “Is there a problem with that?”

“OBVIOUSLY!”

Now, San Lang pipes up from behind him—his tone light and casual. “Gege, are these two your servants?”

Mu Qing balls his hands up into fists, glaring, and Xie Lian laughs awkwardly, rubbing the side of his head. “No, no, if anything they’re more like…assistants!”

“Oh, I see…” San Lang nods, his eyes zeroed in on Mu Qing. “If that’s the case, then you might as well help out.”

Xie Lian hears the sound of something being tossed over, and then, wincing sharply when he hears Fu Yao catch it, he realizes—

It’s a broom.

“No, Fu Yao…” The god smiles awkwardly, “Let’s not overreact—”

/BOOM!/

Aaand there goes the newly renovated shrine wall.

San Lang is fine, Xie Lian can hear as much from the way he moves behind him, his heart rate never increasing.

Xie Lian, however, while a very patient person, is not infinitely so.

“You guys…” He trails off, and there’s a tone that makes Nan Feng stiffen.

“I didn’t—HGNH—!”

Fu Yao is in the middle of shrieking at San Lang like a cat that’s been doused in cold water when a hand grips him by the back of the neck, reducing him to more of an angry kitten.

Nan Feng isn’t as lucky, because he’s caught by the front of the neck in more of a stranglehold.

Fu Yao’s arms flail in San Lang’s direction, infuriated by the delighted, smug look on the teenagers face as he gets dragged away.

“LET ME AT THAT LITTLE—!”

While Nan Feng chokes, clinging to Xie LIan’s wrist, “I WASN’T EVEN THE ONE WHO BROKE IT, I—!”

Both of them collapse to the ground in a heap when Xie Lian deposits them by the shrine gates, pointing to the sign posted by the entrance. “What does this say?”

His tone is as lighthearted and easygoing as ever, but there’s a layer of iron underneath.

“…”

Fu Yao sits up, his hair slightly askew, “…Currently looking for donations to renovate this shrine…seriously, your highness? Where’s your dignity as a Heavenly Official?”

“If you keep fighting in there, you’ll knock the entire shrine down. Understand?”

Nan Feng sits up, immediately catching a face full of Fu Yao’s hair, only to get shoved back down when he spits it out, batting it away.

“STOP TOUCHING MY HAIR!”

“THAT WASN’T MY—!”

There’s a pointed poke against the sign, loud enough to make them both stop, mildly sheepish.

“Did you two come here because you wanted to help me with the Crescent Moon Pass issue?” Xie Lian questions, his tone still light, and Nan Feng looks away from Fu Yao with a huff, rubbing his throat.

“Yes.”

“Then you’re both welcome to help—but San Lang is my guest.”

Xie Lian emphasizes, crossing his arms. “And a friend. So I won’t let either of you bully him.”

“…” Nan Feng glances from Xie Lian, back towards the shrine—where San Lang is leaning against the doorframe and watching with a satisfied smirk. “I’m not sure if we even could…”

Now that the issue has been addressed, Xie Lian turns back walking back towards the shrine. “I’m sorry about that, San Lang—there was just a bit of a misunderstanding. We cleared it up.”

When responding to Xie Lian—the teenager’s tone is perfectly charming.

“If you say so, gege—there’s no problem. After all—maybe I just remind them of someone.”

Fu Yao steps inside behind Xie Lian, his hands balling up into fists. “Yeah,” he mutters, watching San Lang with narrowed eyes. “You do look pretty familiar.”

The teenager smiles.

“Both of you look pretty familiar to me too, actually.”

That makes both of the deputy gods stiffen, with Fu Yao looking like he might gear up to throw another ball of lightning—and Nan Feng clears his throat.

“Move away from the door—I need space to draw the array.”

Xie Lian is pleasantly surprised to observe that, despite his often pretending not to know better—Nan Feng actually does know how to manage Fu Yao’s temper.

(When he wants to—and when it isn’t directed at him.)

“That’s very helpful of you, Nan Feng—that will save so much time.”

While Nan Feng closes the door behind them, working to draw the appropriate symbols on the back of the wooden planks—Fu Yao glances around, his arms crossed over his chest.

“To think that you’re living in such a place…” He mutters under his breath, disapproving.

Xie Lian doesn’t seem to pay him any mind, grabbing his bamboo hat from where it’s sitting in the corner, slipping it back over his shoulders.

“I’ve always lived in such places,” he murmurs with a cheerful shrug. “So, it’s perfect for me!”

The deputy gods grow slightly tense.

Nan Feng doesn’t find that as shocking. After all, back when they were living with his parents after the fall of Xianle, well…

“It’s finished,” he mutters, straightening up.

“And messy,” Fu Yao drawls, always critical.

“Do I look like the earth master to you?!” He snaps.

Xie Lian tilts his head curiously. “Is the Earth Master particularly good with arrays?”

“Ming Yi was known as an engineer in his mortal life,” Fu Yao mutters. “He runs most of the connections for the arrays that Heaven uses now.”

“And this one is perfectly functional.”

Nan Feng grumbles, stepping back.

“I’m sure that it is,” Xie Lian agrees, smiling politely as he moves forward to take the door handle.

Most travel arrays with with simple activation chants—and this one is no different.

He grips the handle, taking a deep breath:

“By Heaven Official’s Blessing, No Paths are Bound.”

When he pulls the handle back—the first thing he’s hit with is the smell of smoke and sand, the dry desert air blowing through his hair as he steps forward.

San Lang is just behind him, clapping his hands in polite applause.

“Wow, such impressive magic…” He muses, sticking close to Xie Lian’s side. “You have such amazing assistants, gege.”

Fu Yao’s eye twitches as he steps out behind them, followed by Nan Feng as they start walking down the sand dunes. “At least were useful and not freeloaders.”

Xie Lian shakes his head, allowing San Lang to take his elbow as he guides him over a dip in the sand. “San Lang is very helpful—he’s incredibly well informed about things.”

“Is that so?” Fu Yao grumbles, watching the teenager closely.

San Lang shrugs, “I’m somewhat well-read.”

“And I’m sure that’s very helpful in this situation,” he sneers, making the teenager raise an eyebrow.

“Well—I have read a bit about the Crescent Moon Kingdom in the past,” he muses. “I know a thing or two.”

That makes Xie Lian perk up eagerly, “You do?”

San Lang nods, keeping his hand on Xie Lian’s elbow for good measure. “The Crescent Moon Kingdom reached it’s height around two centuries ago—known as a culture of warriors who ruled the desert Oases. However, the Kingdom of Yong’an wanted control over the trade routes.”

Xie Lian listens carefully, lining it up with what he already remembers—and most of it seems to check out.

“This led to border skirmishes with increasing violence—and eventually all out war between the two nations,” San Lang explains.

“It was during this time when the Imperial Preceptor of the Crescent Moon Kingdom rose to prominence—and later became known as one of the two infamous demonic cultivators.”

“Demonic Cultivators?” Xie Lian murmurs, tapping his chin thoughtfully. He’s never heard of such a thing.

“The Imperial Preceptor of the Crescent Moon kingdom earned the name after she opened the gates of the city to the soldiers of Yong’an, leading to the slaughter of her people,” San Lang explains. “It’s said the sacrifice allowed her to rise as a powerful Savage Ghost.”

Xie Lian tilts his head, considering the idea. Such a sacrifice could lead to a powerful release of resentful energy—but it isn’t possible to harness such things in a stable or controlled manner.

Even in Gusu, Wen Jiao was drawing power from living humans—not blood sacrifice.

“There are rumors that the ones who go missing in the desert now are being fed to the souls of those slaughtered soldiers—in order to appease their hatred of her,” San Lang concludes. “But there haven’t been any survivors to confirm it.”

Xie Lian nods, taking it in.

“Is there a possibility that she and the other imperial preceptor are working together?”

San Lang shakes his head. “It’s highly unlikely,” He murmurs. “They’re often referenced in tandem—but the other lived a century before her. He was known as the Guoshi Fangxin of Yong’an.”

Xie Lian stops walking for a moment, his entire expression changing.

San Lang watches as it shifts from something like remorse, to pain, then—terror, even if it’s only a brief flash of trembling in his lips, his body tensing in a frightened shudder.

Then, blank numbness.

“…Gege?” He questions, watching the god closely, his eyes slightly narrowed. “Are you alright?”

Xie Lian lifts his chin, lips turning up into a tired smile, but before he can respond, Fu Yao speaks up.

“You certainly are well-read,” he comments dryly. “How peculiar.”

San Lang glances back at the deputy god over his shoulder, eyes flashing—one sharpened canine peeking out slightly from the corner of his mouth. “Hardly,” he smiles, “you’re just ignorant.”

“Would you WATCH YOUR MOUTH?!” Fu Yao snarls, sending another crackling projectile.

In the temple before, the teenager made a show of jumping behind Xie Lian to avoid the attack. But this time, he does no such thing, making eye contact with Fu Yao as he tips his head ever so slightly to the side, the ball of energy missing him by less than an inch.

“My, my…” He smirks, watching as Fu Yao’s expression darkens with sheepish fury, “How terrifying.”

The deputy god glares, his eyes raging with fury, but before he can act further, Xie Lian looks back, his smile pleasant—but with an underlying warning.

“Fu Yao, be nice.”

“I—!” He sputters, looking over at Nan Feng, gesturing wildly in San Lang’s direction, as if silently asking if he’s the crazy one—to which the other deputy god simply shrugs, throwing his hands up helplessly.

Of course, it’s odd—but Xie Lian seems determined to indulge him.

They walk through the entire night without issue—even if San Lang does occasionally whine about why they couldn’t have taken a traveling array all the way to their destination.

Xie Lian patiently explains that doing so would have used too much energy, and the teenager grumbles.

“That one has enough energy to throw fire balls at me every hour or so, couldn’t he have helped?”

“Fu Yao isn’t going to do that again,” Xie Lian replies cheerfully, “he’s saving his energy now—in case we end up needing it.”

But when the sun gets high enough, he does start to worry—enough so to lift his own hat from his head, reaching over to place it on top of San Lang’s.

“Here,” he murmurs, reaching to fasten it under the teenager’s chin, “the sun gets rather intense this time of day—”

But before he can finish explaining, a set of hands covers his own, gently placing them back down before placing the hat back on Xie Lian’s head. “It’s alright, gege,” the teenager reassures him—and despite his earlier whining, he sounds perfectly fine now. “I don’t need it.”

“…” Xie Lian can’t help smiling a little, “Let me know if you change your mind, alright?”

Instead of responding, the teenager tilts his gaze away sheepishly, muttering, “I think I see a structure ahead where we can take a rest. I’ll go take a look.”

Xie Lian isn’t particularly fond of that idea.

The sand and wind around them dampens sound, leaving him unusually out of sorts. And of everyone present, San Lang doesn’t have an aura of spiritual power for Xie Lian to keep track of, the way he can with Nan Feng and Fu Yao.

Letting the teenager get more than a few feet away means letting him out of Xie Lian’s perception entirely—which leaves the god…inexplicably stressed, his posture suddenly tense.

Nan Feng, however, breaks him from his worrying by asking—

“Your highness, you really trust him?”

“…” Xie Lian nods, fiddling with the chain around his neck absentmindedly. “He hasn’t given me a reason not to.”

“You don’t find anything about him suspicious?” Fu Yao interjects, frustrated, and the god shrugs.

“Of course I do—but I’ve already tested him several times.”

“And…he passed?”

Xie Lian nods, crossing his arms. “So, that only leaves two possibilities: he’s a normal mortal, or…”

He trails off, but Nan Feng finishes the statement for him grimly:

“A Calamity.”

“Shouldn’t that be more concerning?!” Fu Yao glares.

“Not particularly.”

Xie Lian shrugs, “I mean—think about it: what would a Ghost King be doing following me around? He would have nothing to gain from that. Besides—I would think he would be a little too busy for things like squabbling with the two of you over sleeping arrangements.”

Neither of them have a strong argument for that, except…

“…He could be trying to take advantage of you, your highness.” Nan Feng points out carefully, his tone gentle. “A sick creature like that—he might get satisfaction out of doing that to a god.”

Xie Lian raises an eyebrow

“Nan Feng—I don’t have anything of worth for him to want to take.”

He doesn’t even have enough pride to be humiliated for being tricked—so what is there to worry about?

Nan Feng pauses, hesitant—but Fu Yao—

He seems genuinely distressed, watching Xie Lian with frustration.

“There is always something left for men like that to take,” he hisses, his expression slightly pale. “You of all people should understand that!”

Nan Feng stiffens, sending Fu Yao an unreadable look, and Xie Lian…

Just stares back at him with confusion.

Men like that?

San Lang has never been anything but considerate towards him—and even with plenty of chances to harm him (if he were such a powerful ghost, that is) he hasn’t taken a single one.

“…Fu Yao,” the prince frowns, “I really don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

The deputy god stands there, his hands balled into fists, his expression roiling with a dozen different emotions when San Lang calls over the wind—

“Gege! I found something over here!”

Xie Lian turns, following the sound of his voice in that direction, and Nan Feng…

Reaches out to place his hand on Fu Yao’s arm, his tone uncharacteristically neutral as he says, “We can test him ourselves,” he points out, “We came prepared for that.”

The deputy god doesn’t respond, glaring at the sand beneath their feet, and Nan Feng frowns.

When he speaks again, his voice is even quieter, like he’s speaking to an animal that is likely to bolt, “Is there something—?”

Which Fu Yao promptly does, stomping towards the abandoned house after Xie Lian without another word, leaving Nan Feng to follow with a sigh.

Once inside, they find San Lang and Xie Lian sitting side by side at a table, sharing a cask of water.

The teenager watches as his god takes several long swallows from the flask, chin tilted back, throat bobbing with each gulp.

His gaze turns dark and shrouded as he watches one drop of water escape the god’s lips, slipping from the corner of his mouth and down his chin as he asks—

“Is there any left?”

Xie Lian lowers the cask from his lips with a nod, moving to hand it over, when Fu Yao speaks up.

“Why don’t you take mine?” He offers, reaching into his sleeve for his own flask. “I haven’t had any yet.”

San Lang casts his gaze in the deputy god’s direction, bored and disinterested. “Is that so? Why haven’t you?”

Xie Lian sniffs, then stiffens, smelling the enchantment.

It’s been laced with a spell that would reveal the true shape of anyone who drinks it—and, given that San Lang would have to be a Calamity if he truly was a ghost—it must be powerful.

“You’re the guest,” Fu Yao smiles thinly, sliding it over. “So you should go first.”

San Lang smiles back at him, his eyes squinting with an obviously fake sort of friendliness. “You’re the one offering—so by all means, you should go first.”

Fu Yao grits his teeth, his tone turning strained with annoyance, “Why are you refusing? Do you have something to hide?”

“You’re the one that’s being weird,” San Lang muses, kicking back. “What if it’s poisoned?”

“Then you could just ask him about that,” Fu Yao sneers, pointing in Xie Lian’s direction.

When he feels San Lang look to him, the god squirms with discomfort. “It’s…not, but—”

The teenager promptly takes the bottle without any more need for reassurance, tilting his head back as he swallows down the entire thing in three gulps, his posture relaxed as he tosses the bottle aside, his form…

Completely unchanged, other than the smirk on his lips.

“That tasted awful…” He mutters, clicking his tongue. “You’re sure it wasn’t poisoned?”

Fu Yao’s eye twitches with annoyance. “It was just regular water, you little—!”

But before he can finish speaking, Nan Feng slams a sword scabbard onto the table, sliding it over.

“Here, friend,” he offers with a forced smile. “It might be dangerous where we’re going—and you’re the only one of us that isn’t armed. Take this for protection.”

Xie Lian frowns, reaching over to feel at the scabbard curiously, feeing the engraving on the pommel—

Red Mirror.

“…I thought this was pawned, back when I was first banished.” Xie Lian mutters, his expression tinged with the unpleasantness of the memory.

He gave it to Feng Xin for that purpose, anyway.

The deputy god shrugs, “Nan Yang tracked it down again—and allowed me to borrow it.”

The blade was originally a gift from Jun Wu—and known for the enchantment that, if held by someone inhuman, it would turn to the color of blood, revealing the true form of it’s wielder in it’s reflection.

San Lang lifts the sword, his expression…complicated.

Almost as though he’s just as familiar with the blade as Xie Lian is—but that wouldn’t be possible.

He lifts it, one hand on the scabbard, the other gripping the hilt.

“This is interesting metal work on the cross guard,” he muses. “Do you know who forged this weapon?”

Feng Xin seems a little baffled by the question, his brow furrowed. “No? It’s far too old for that.”

San Lang shakes his head with a sigh. “Keeping track of the master who forged a weapon is key to maintaining them as they age. The method of construction impacts longevity.”

Xie Lian turns his chin in San Lang’s direction, genuinely impressed. It’s rare that he encounters someone with a passion for blades comparable to his own—and even more rare to encounter anyone with such technical knowledge. “That’s exactly right,” he murmurs.

“…Well if you’re so worried about maintenance,” Nan Feng mutters, his tone slightly annoyed, “Why don’t you take it out and see how you like it?”

San Lang shrugs, seeming to find that reasonable—and Xie Lian can’t help but tense as he starts to draw the blade, when—

The teenager stops, glancing up at the deputy gods and raising an eyebrow. “…Gege, are your friends pranking me?”

Nan Feng stiffens, offended by the accusation. “We wouldn’t do that!”

San Lang sets the scabbard down, pushing it over to him. “This sword is broken.”

Nan Feng raises an eyebrow, sputtering, “It’s not—!”

But, when he pulls out the handle of the weapon, the actual blade itself comes calling out of the scabbard in several pieces, landing on the table with a clatter.

San Lang leans back, rolling a shard of broken metal between his fingers expertly. “I suppose it must have been an accident, giving me a broken blade. Maybe something happened to it during your travels?”

“That’s—!” Nan Feng fumes, his eyes narrowing. “That’s not possible!”

“Relax,” the teenager drawls, kicking his feet up on the table. “I can re-forge it for you, when all of this is over with.”

“Reforge?!” Fu Yao snorts, shocked, “What are you on about?”

San Lang shrugs, tossing the metal shard into the air, catching it without ever getting cut.

“My mother is a master blade smith,” he explains calmly, “she’s been training me to carry on the family craft. Re-forging a simple short sword like this wouldn’t be a challenge.”

The deputy gods sputter at the arrogance it takes for a mortal to call a Heavenly arm, ‘simple.’

Xie Lian, however, feels his chest warm up with curiosity, turning to San Lang with a delighted smile, “You never told me you were a smith, San Lang.”

The youth watches the look on Xie Lian’s face, clearly pleased.

“I’m not as good as my mother yet—but I’ve made quite a few weapons already. I’d be happy to show gege anytime.”

Xie Lian’s smile widens with a genuine eagerness, “I’d like that—and to meet you mother too, she sounds like an impressive woman.”

The warmth in San Lang’s expression fades significantly, but his tone remains fond as he replies—

“She certainly is.”

Xie Lian sits back, pleased with the idea of being able to see San Lang’s work up close. And it also explains quite a lot.

The tension between San Lang and his mother—it’s likely a young man bucking under the pressure of taking on a family business. It also explains the callouses on his palms, his knowledge of weapons, and, well…

Being a smith would explain how toned his arms and shoulders are.

Not that Xie Lian has been touching them all the time or anything, it’s just—San Lang helps guide him around rather frequently, often while not wearing a shirt, and sometimes you can’t help but notice—

Xie Lian glances away from the group, opening his eyes blearily.

Initially, just because he’s kept them closed so often around San Lang, it’s left them slightly itchy, but—

Then he notices something to the east, far enough to be outside of the shack, moving quickly.

An aura—no, two distinct shapes of spiritual power, moving quickly.

Both strong—one light green in color, swirling like a small tornado as it rockets across the dunes. The other is dark, shades of deep blue, black, and gold—and far more stagnant in shape, flowing behind it’s companion like a wave.

San Lang is the first to notice the change in his posture, leaning over with concern. “Gege, are you alright?”

Xie Lian doesn’t look away, a frown forming on his lips, “…Something else is here.”

The teenager glances over his shoulder—spying two women moving across the desert.

One with warm brown curls and vividly green eyes, wearing robes of white and emerald, a whisk clutched between her fingertips—and moving behind her, a woman dressed in black, dark tresses flowing behind her in the wind.

San Lang’s eyes narrow slightly.

She’s somewhat familiar.

“…There are two female cultivators outside,” he explains softly, speaking next to Xie Lian’s ear. “One in black, the other in white. They’re owing rather quickly.”

Xie Lian doubts that’s a coincidence, moving to follow them outside.

“Do you think one of them is the Imperial Preceptor?” The prince asks, having to raise his voice to be heard over the wind.

San Lang shrugs, sticking close beside him. “It’s difficult to say from that distance.”

And now, they’re far enough that Xie Lian can’t see a trace at all

What he can feel, however, is the wind picking up violently, the noise level rising as the sand whips around them—and as the chaos around them increases, Xie Lian feels his senses becoming overstimulated, making his anxiety spike.

He fumbles over to grip San Lang once more, mainly looking to reassure himself that the young man is still there—and when he does, he feels that his outer robe has been slightly displaced by the wind, making the god reach to fix it with a frown.

The teenager stops, watching fondly as Xie Lian fusses over him, his expression softening. Just then, the wind gets strong enough to even knock the god’s hat off of his head, but before it can fly away, San Lang reaches out to snatch it between his fingers.

“Here,” he murmurs, bending over as he places the hat back on Xie Lian’s head, reaching under the god’s chin to pull the strap tight, keeping it there.

The prince shivers slightly, telling himself it’s from the wind, and not the brush of San Lang’s fingers over his skin.

“…Thank you, San Lang,” he murmurs.

When he hears Fu Yao and Nan Feng catch up, he raises his sleeve to shield his face from the wind.

“I think we should go back inside,” he calls to the others. “This storm looks like it’s going to be pretty bad—we should just wait it out!”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Fu Yao calls back, “this storm almost seems like it’s intended to keep us out of the pass—it’ll probably just continue until we move past it!”

Xie Lian can admit that’s probably true, but…

He’s already so disoriented, he finds the idea of moving through the storm like this until the reach the Crescent Moon Pass completely daunting.

“Couldn’t…we give waiting a try?” He offers, his tone somewhat meek.

“And waste all of that time?! No way, I’m not doing that!”

Now, when San Lang speaks up—his tone is sly, but his expression is genuinely irritated, no—

There’s a spark of protective anger behind those eyes.

“Do you enjoy being difficult on purpose?” He glares. “Or can you genuinely not help yourself?”

Fu Yao sputters, offended. “I—!”

But before he can really retort—or San Lang can throw anymore insults—the wind around them suddenly increases in force, swirling violently, and—

“Oh!” Xie Lian gasps, eyes widening as he’s yanked off of the ground, sent flying up into the air, sucked into the whirlwind.

“Gege!”

San Lang cries out sharply, his voice slightly panicked—but before long it’s far away as Xie Lian finds himself being flipped around over and over again, hair and clothes whipping around him, unsure which way is up or down.

It leaves him heavily disoriented, every breath sucked out of his chest as he tries to take it, his head spinning.

“R…” He grits his teeth, fumbling for something, anything to hold onto, “Ruoye! Grab onto something solid!”

The bandage surges forward in an effort to obey.

Xie Lian clings on, relieved when the other end of Ruoye wraps around something weighty enough to stop him from spinning—but instead of it dragging him back down to earth, it’s dragging whatever it grabbed up towards the prince, making him frown.

“I said something solid, not—!”

/SLAM!/

Something warm and solid slams into him, very obviously not a rock or stone, but rather a living person—and when Xie Lian breathes in, he catches the scent of the forest, letting out a shaky sigh.

“Gege,” San Lang murmurs, sounding perfectly calm, “there you are.”

He wraps his arms around the god’s waist from behind as Ruoye binds them together, and Xie Lian shouts in apology, “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean for Ruoye to grab you!”

The teenager shrugs, chin resting against Xie Lian’s shoulder as he surveys the storm around them, “It’s alright.”

Xie Lian finds himself a little baffled as to how the young man can be so relaxed in a situation like this—but for now, he’s too focused on getting them out of this to pay it much mind.

“Ruoye!” He cries, throwing his arm out, “Try again, but don’t grab a person this time!”

The prince can feel it now, when the white bandage once again latches onto something solid—but, once again, instead of dragging them back down, it drags the object back up, and when he hears voices, he groans.

“HOW MANY TIMES TO I HAVE TO TELL YOU TO STOP TOUCHING MY HAIR?!”

Nan Feng snarls, writhing to get away from him, “THIS TIME IT COULDN’T BE MORE OBVIOUS THAT IT ISN’T MY FAULT!”

“It’s got your spit ALL OVER IT NOW! SO FUCKING GROSS!”

“I ALREADY SAID I CAN’T HELP IT! MAYBE YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE IT SO LONG!”

“Why did it grab you two…”

“Like WE know!” Fu Yao glares, squirming uncomfortably as he ends up pinned with his front against Xie Lian, and his back against Nan Feng’s chest. “Ask that stupid bandage of yours!”

“Would you—!” Nan Feng grunts, his expression clearly uncomfortable, “Stop SQUIRMING?!”

Fu Yao turns his head to give him a nasty look, “WHAT DO YOU EXPECT ME TO DO?! I DON’T WANT TO CATCH YOUR FLEAS!”

“JUST STOP MOVING LIKE THAT WHEN YOU’RE ON TOP OF MY—”

“YOUR WHAT?!”

“Gege,” San Lang mumbles, not lifting his chin from Xie Lian’s shoulder, his tone petulant.

“Maybe you should just drop them.”

Fu Yao glares, trying to flail his arms in the direction of San Lang’s neck as though he wants to strangle him, all while Nan Feng lets out a pained groan, “YOU—!”

“Ruoye!” Xie Lian shouts, “please don’t grab the wrong thing this time!”

The bandage shoots back down once again—but this time, it does manage to latch onto something solid enough to drag them back down, slowly but surely—until they’re slammed down into the sand dunes once more.

/BOOM!/

Fu Yao and Nan Feng are quick to scramble apart, but San Lang’s grip on Xie Lian’s waist remains firm, making sure the god doesn’t end up sucked back up into the storm once again.

“There’s a cave nearby, gege,” the young man murmurs, helping him to his feet. “Come with me.”

Xie Lian nods, allowing himself to be pulled along, listening as the two deputy gods follow close behind—and letting out a breath of relief when they slip into the cavern, leaving the furious winds outside.

The god coughs, spitting out sand as he questions—

“Why didn’t either of you use the thousand pound spell?”

Fu Yao shakes the sand out of his hair (most of it landing on Nan Feng’s face), “You think we didn’t try that? Something about this place is suppressing our powers, we couldn’t do anything.”

Xie Lian frowns, concerned.

“How odd…”

Then again, everything about this incursion has been strange so far. It’s like something is trying very hard to pull them in—while an equal, opposing force is doing it’s best to keep them out…

“Gege?”

“Hmm?”

“It looks like you’re sitting on some sort of marker.”

Xie Lian jumps, straightening to his feet as Fu Yao lights a small fire in the palm of his hand, holding it out as San Lang kneels down to examine it.

“…It sees like some sort of grave marker,” he murmurs, tilting his head. “The language is certainly that of the Crescent Moon.”

The prince turns to kneel down beside him, reaching out to feel the characters for himself. “…They do feel familiar,” he murmurs in agreement, making Nan Feng raise an eyebrow.

“…Your highness can read the language of the Crescent Moon Kingdom?”

“Ah…” Xie Lian glances up with an awkward smile, “to be honest with you, I used to collect scraps in that area.”

“…” Fu Yao crosses his arms over his chest, raising an eyebrow. “Is there anywhere you haven’t collected scraps at this point?” He questions dryly.

Xie Lian thinks it over, scratching the side of his head. “You know, I’m not sure?” He admits, running his fingertips over the characters more carefully. “…I can see that one of the words here says General,” he murmurs. “But the rest of it is a mystery to—”

He stops.

Nan Feng sends him a curious look, but the first thing Xie Lian does is reach for San Lang, gripping his elbow as he whispers—

“We aren’t alone here.”

There are other people in the cave—and from how many heart beats he hears—there must be somewhere around twenty of them.

It’s in that moment when Nan Feng looks up and spies a young man peering at them from around the corner of one of the rock formations in the cavern—and upon seeing one another, both scream, jumping back.

Fu Yao glares, using his fireball to illuminate the entire space.

“REVEAL YOURSELVES!”

What he ends up revealing, in the end, is a bunch of terrified merchants—and some of their companions are young enough to almost be considered children.

“What are you doing here?! Why were you hiding?!”

“Taking shelter from the storm!” One of them cries.

“You were the ones who showed up and started using magic all of the sudden! What were we supposed to do?!”

Neither Fu Yao or Nan Feng respond, because, well…

It’s a fair point.

Xie Lian smiles, rising to his feet, “It looks like we’re just a group of merchants and Taoists.”

One of the older merchants nods, eager for the opportunity to avoid quarreling with the newcomers. “Us ordinary folks have to stick together!”

“Are you really ordinary?” San Lang questions, eyeing them curiously. “After all—you came in spite of the rumors about this place.”

“Well, yes…” One of the merchants agrees, “But we have A’Zhao with us, so we have no reason to fear. He was the one who led us to this cave so we could take shelter from the storm!”

He points, and San Lang’s gaze drifts towards a dark haired young man seated in the corner.

“I’m just doing my job,” the youth murmurs, not seeming to take much pleasure in being praised.

“He’s the most reliable guide to get you through the desert pass,” the younger boy explains—known by the name Tian Sheng. “He’s the reason we made it this far!”

Xie Lian nods with an encouraging smile, but he makes a mental note to tell Fu Yao and Nan Feng that they’ll need to escort the mortals out of the desert when the storm clears out before continuing on, it’s too dangerous otherwise.

While he’s lost in thought, San Lang kneels in front of the grave marker once more.

“…You were right, gege.” He muses. “It does say that this is the Tomb of the General.”

The sound of that makes Xie Lian perk up, turning back to him. “San Lang—you can read that language?”

The young man smiles over at him and offers a small shrug, “I must have picked it up in a book somewhere.”

“Aren’t you full of surprises,” Fu Yao mutters dryly, but San Lang elects to ignore him, reading more off of the tombstone.

“It says here that he was beloved by the people—constantly intervening when soldiers on either side of the war attempted to harm civilians,” the youth explains, hair slipping over his shoulder as he leans forward. “As a result, he was demoted.”

“So he wasn’t really a general?”

“Not towards the end of his life, no.” San Lang shakes his head. “He was promoted to the level of officer at one point—but as punishment for his interference, he was demoted all the way back down to the bottom.”

“Just for trying to help people?” Tian Sheng frowns.

“That’s stupid!”

“And an oddly familiar tale,” Fu Yao comments, eyes narrowed. “Reminds me of a certain god I know.”

Xie Lian’s smile turns a little strained. “He broke the rules, and he was punished.”

“How did he die?” One of the merchants questions curiously.

“Um…” The god laughs a little nervously, running his fingertips over the rest of the stone, reading what he can. “…He was in the middle of trying to stop yet another conflict, and when that failed, he, ah…”

“What?”

“Ended up trampled,” Xie Lian explains lamely.

That draws a few surprised laughs from the merchants standing around, and San Lang raises an eyebrow. “Is that supposed to be funny?”

“I didn’t mean anything mean by laughing!” Tian Sheng mumbles, rubbing at his neck. “That’s just…kind of a…silly way to go, is all.”

“There are sillier ways to go,” Xie Lian comments, his tone a little far away, like he’s remembering something. “I once saw a man choke to death on a piece of spun sugar in the middle of a circus act.”

Everyone sitting nearby stops to stare at him, and he adds—

“He was performing as a clown at the time, so everyone thought it was part of the show. But later on, everyone said he died doing what he loved, so…”

He trails off, realizing that no one else seems to find it as interesting as him. Well. Except for San Lang.

“…In any case,” the teenager shrugs, straightening up, “It says that anyone who bows before the grave of the general three times will pass through the desert unharmed.”

And that statement has all of the merchants scrambling to kneel before the tombstone, bowing their heads.

“…San Lang,” Xie Lian murmurs, biting back a smile. “Why are you playing with them?”

The teenager shrugs, his side pressing against Xie Lian’s lightly when he sits back down. “They were laughing at him,” he murmurs. “So it’s only fair if we laugh at them a little bit too.”

“…” Xie Lian’s lips twitch, and he finds himself leaning back against San Lang, just a little bit, when—

“SNAKE!”

One of the men towards the back of the cavern starts shrieking, running forward, joined by a few of his companions.

“THERE’S A SNAKE!”

Xie Lian listens closely—and he can hear it, slithering across the cave floor. The sounds made by it’s forked tongue when it slides out between it’s lips. The clicking noise of it’s tail.

His first instinct is to step in front of San Lang. “Everyone, be careful!”

“Scorpion snakes are native to the area—they’re highly poisonous!”

In that moment, he can sense the creature launch itself in an attack—but before the god can respond, San Lang snatches it out of the air with ease.

“What an interesting little creature,” he muses.

He doesn’t sound particularly frightened, having caught the snake in a grip with his thumb pressed against it’s heart, ready to kill it at any moment.

Still, when Xie Lian hears it move, he tenses with worry. “Watch out for the tail—!”

San Lang moves faster than the god can speak, catching the stinger before it can pierce him with his other hand, stretching the snake out and examining it. “How curious, a scorpion snake you said?”

“Yes, and they’re very dangerous…” Xie Lian mutters, fretful.

“You shouldn’t go and grab them like that.”

San Lang shrugs, twisting the snake by the neck until it goes limp. “You know, these animals were often controlled by the Imperial Preceptor of the Crescent Moon Kingdom? They used to be heavily associated with her.”

Xie Lian frowns, listening all around them.

If the Imperial Preceptor is the one that could control the snakes—and theoretically, she’s the one drawing travelers into the pass in order to feed them to the ghosts of Crescent Moon soldiers, then…

“There’s more of them.”

“…What?”

Xie Lian straightens quickly, raising his voice, “There’s more snakes in the cavern!” He calls out to the others, “We should get out of here!”

At first, everyone is doubtful of the blind man—until they start to see the shadows for themselves.

Then, everyone is screaming and fleeing the cave as fast as they can, charging out the mouth and into the waiting desert outside.

Lucky for them, the sandstorm has passed—but when Xie Lian hears a pained groan, he knows not everyone made it out unscathed.

“Uncle Zheng!”

He listens with a grimace as one of the elderly merchants falls to the ground, and Tian Sheng clings to his arm, calling out, “I think he’s been bitten!”

“Somebody help!”

Xie Lian rubs his temples before calling out to the others—

“Check yourselves for wounds!”

“If you find any, be sure that you tie them off before the poison can spread any further!”

Fu Yao elbows past the others, kneeling down beside Old Man Zheng, examining the wound on his hand before tying it off, looking back at Xie Lian and the others.

“This is bad…”

Tian Sheng sniffs, tugging at Fu Yao’s sleeve, his eyes filled with worry. “I-Is he gonna be okay?”

The deputy god stares down at him, reluctant to offer bad news—and that’s when their guide, A’Zhao, finally decides to speak.

“The venom is deadly to humans within ten hours.”

That causes panicked muttering within the group—and Fu Yao sighs, reaching into his sleeve. “I have medicine,” he mutters, opening a small pouch, lifting out a small bundle of herbs from inside, placing it in the old man’s mouth. “It won’t cure him—but it should buy him time.”

“Is…Is there no antidote fro Scorpion Snake venom?” One of the merchants questions, his voice trembling. “Is the man doomed?”

After a moment of silence, San Lang replies, “There is one herb that is known to treat it. The Shan Yue fern—but it only grows in Crescent Moon lands.”

Tian Sheng beams hopefully, “A’Zhao, why didn’t you mention that? We can save Uncle Zheng!”

“He didn’t mention it because going there would be a death sentence for at least half of you,” San Lang shrugs. “It’s a risky option.”

Xie Lian rubs his chin, contemplating.

It’s actually a rather ingenious way for the Preceptor of the Crescent Moon Kingdom to lure humans in. Send her snakes out to bite travelers in the desert, then feed the humans who come looking to the cure to the resentful spirits of her former soldiers.

It makes the situation dangerous—and even though Ling Wen asked him not to bring the issue to the Heavens, with so many mortals at risk…Xie Lian doesn’t feel like he has a choice.

But now, when he tries to enter the communication array—he only receives silence in answer.

“…Nan Feng, Fu Yao,” he murmurs, his brow furrowing. “Can either one of you get into the communication array right now?”

Both deputy gods try, making efforts of their own—but both shake their heads.

“Something here is suppressing our powers, your highness.”

Xie Lian frowns.

Something in the area is sealing it off—suppressing the powers of heavenly officials, and stopping communication from going in and out.

Just like Gusu.

Which could mean, the closer Xie Lian gets to the Crescent Moon Kingdom, his shackles might start…

Just then, a rustle nearby snaps him out of his train of thought—followed by a rush of movement, lunging in San Lang’s direction.

Xie Lian doesn’t hesitate to react, whipping his hand out, grasping the snake briefly by the head before hurling it to the ground.

/THUD!/

“…Stay on guard,” he mutters, shaking his head, “there are still snakes nearby—”

Xie Lian stops, however, when he feels someone grasping his wrist rather tightly, and—

He can’t see the look on San Lang’s face, but he feels the tense, dark cloud that seems to have shrouded him.

“…San Lang?” He questions.

The teenager doesn’t speak at first, staring down the darkening wound on the god’s hand, eyes smoldering with rage. But when he speaks, his tone is far calmer than he looks.

“You were stung, gege.”

He was?

“Oh…I didn’t even feel it,”

Xie Lian admits sheepishly, rubbing the side of his head with his free hand. To be fair—something like that would only be a pinprick to him, and it all happened so fast…

San Lang doesn’t say a word, snatching Ruoye—who, despite being manhandled by a stranger, doesn’t protest.

He wraps the bandage around Xie Lian’s wrist tightly, binding off the wound before lifting a dagger from his hip, offering it to Nan Feng without a word.

Somehow understanding what the young man wants—the deputy god lights a small flame.

San Lang holds the knife there for a few seconds, allowing it to heat up before he brings it down on the sting on Xie Lian’s hand.

The prince doesn’t wince, not even when San Lang cuts a bloody x, allowing blood to flow. “San Lang, it’s really—!”

He cuts himself off with a high pitched sound of surprise, his body going slightly rigid when he feels San Lang’s lips against his skin, and—

A flash of the younger man’s tongue as he begins to suck, drawing the venom out.

“That’s—!” Xie Lian starts, then stops.

He waits until he can trust his voice before he starts, again, clearing his throat, “The venom is potent, you shouldn’t risk yourself!”

San Lang pays him no mind, spitting a mouthful of contaminated blood onto the ground, while Fu Yao huffs, crossing his arms.

“You don’t even know if he would have been bitten,” he grumbles. “Why make such a fuss?”

“But what if he had been hurt—?” Xie Lian starts, but is forced to stop again, a shiver running through him when San Lang’s mouth returns to his skin once more, and…

There’s something familiar about this.

Something that stirs inside of him like a familiar ache.

Most of Xie Lian’s memories are constructed from touch and sound alone, and now, he’s remembering…so, so long ago…

A ghost kneeling before him, asking for one reward.

It was such a small thing, in comparison to everything he had done. When placed in line with everything Xie Lian had put him through, but…

The only reward Wu Ming asked for was to kiss Xie LIan’s hand.

And now, with San Lang kneeling before him, his lips pressed against the god’s skin, he can’t help but remember…

“…San Lang,” he murmurs, swallowing hard. “I’m alright now, really.”

The teenager pulls back, however reluctantly, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth.

He grasps Xie Lian’s hand tightly for one more moment—examining it before he lets him go.

Xie Lian shakes the limb out, squeezing his fingers. They’re tingling now, but that doesn’t have much to do with the snake venom.

“I’ll be alright,” he murmurs. “I can’t kill me, but…”

There’s some mention from Fu Yao about reporting back to the Heavens on the matter—but Xie Lian promptly decides, remembering Ling Wen’s warning, and…

“Saving lives comes first,” Xie Lian murmurs. “We’ll go to the Crescent Moon and get the Shan Yue fern, but,,,”

He points in A’Zhao’s direction, “We’ll need him to take us there.”

That earns a reluctant stir from the merchants, who seem wary of the idea of being left alone in the desert without a guide—after all, they may not come back.

But, the promise of leaving Fu Yao behind seems to sooth them enough to agree to the plan—which works out, because it just so happens to be the only plan.

They set off from there—just the four of them: Xie Lian, Nan Feng, San Lang, and A’Zhao.

It’s a quiet journey.

Partly because Xie Lian is lost in thought, contemplating their situation—what A’Zhao’s role in this might be, and what their course of action will be when they arrive, but also…

San Lang has been incredibly quiet. Sticking very close to Xie Lian’s side, but not saying a word.

Xie Lian can’t help but wonder if something happened back there to make the young man upset—but he can’t put his finger on a single cause of what that might be.

Well—aside from the snake, but Xie Lian’s clearly alright, so it couldn’t be—

“We’re here.”

The desert sand beneath their feet slowly transforms into streets of sandstone, worn and broken down buildings rising around them as day turns into night.

“This is an entire kingdom?” Feng Xin questions, slightly disbelieving. “It just looks like a small city to me.”

“It might look that way,” Xie Lian murmurs, “but the Crescent Moon Kingdom was a powerful adversary. Even with a smaller population—their warriors were fierce.”

A’Zhao’s gaze cuts back to him, an eyebrow raising. “You’re quite knowledgeable.”

The god shrugs, “I’ve traveled.”

Nan Feng stares into the distance, using his hand to shield his eyes from the harsh rays of the setting sun. “What’s that wall in the distance? It almost looks like a tower of some sort…”

But with no proper roof, it would seem.

“…That would be the Sinner’s Pit,” Xie Lian sighs, picking through older memories. “Basically think of it as a prison.”

Feng Xin peers at it a little more closely, “Then why call it a pit?”

“Because the bottom is filled with vipers and deadly beasts,” San Lang supplies.

“Once someone in the Crescent Moon Kingdom was convicted of a serious crime, they would be thrown down into the pit to suffer indefinitely until they perished.”

Feng Xin shudders at the notion, clearly finding it barbaric—but the next words out of his mouth make Xie Lian stop.

“Is that someone hanging over there? Over the pit?”

Feng Xin isn’t looking at him—so he doesn’t see the way Xie Lian suddenly goes still, his face becoming quite pale.

San Lang doesn’t say a word, but he steps slightly closer, his warmth a comforting presence against his back.

The prince doesn’t speak for a moment, his expression unreadable.

There’s something about the image of it—someone hanging there, alone—with him below, not even knowing it—

He tenses, his hands balling into fists.

“Someone’s coming,” he mutters. “Two people—fast.”

The immediate response is to scatter and hide, of course—with San Lang pulling Xie Lian into an adjacent building, both of them standing close together behind a half crumbling doorframe.

In the street outside, a white and emerald robed figure comes to a halt with a sigh.

“They’re so fast,” she whines, flicking a whisk between her fingers as she looks around, hands on her hips. “What am I supposed to do, hunt them down one by one?”

Another woman, standing a head and a half taller and dressed in black, lands beside her—her tone far less amused.

“Why don’t you call one of your friends to help you?”

“Hmm…” The smaller woman turns around, clasping the whisk behind her back as she rocks back on her heels, eyes glinting up at her companion playfully. “I only like calling for you,” she murmurs, “don’t you like that?”

Dark blue eyes, almost black—flash down at her with an appealing sort of hunger, the sort that makes her stomach blossom with warmth.

“What’s there to be happy about when it’s always boring messes like this?” The dark haired woman replies, taking a step closer to her.

“Mmm…” The smaller woman smiles, not backing away as her companion steps fully into her space. “I have a theory,” she hums.

Hands settle on her waist, and an eyebrow raises. “What sort?”

Ming-Xiong is an expert on theories. She’s an expert on everything, actually.

Always knows the answers to Shi Qingxuan’s questions, no matter how far off and ridiculous they might seem. She rarely speaks at length, and the Wind Master isn’t known for her attention span, but…Sometimes, it feels like she could listen to Ming-Xiong forever and not get bored.

“…That you’re stronger than you want most people to realize,” Shi Qingxuan murmurs, her hands resting delicately against her companion’s biceps as she leans back to look up at her. “But you’re lazy, and you don’t want Jun Wu to give you extra work, so you lay low.”

Dark eyes flash once more—this time with a little more danger than there was before. “And what does your little theory have to do with the situation at hand?”

Shi Qingxuan grins, rocking up onto the balls of her feet, her arms sliding around her friend’s neck as she whispers—

“Because you have a soft spot for impressing pretty girls,” she murmurs, feeling those arms tighten around her waist just a little bit, tempted.

It’s like the cosmic version of tempting a man with a helpless damsel who can’t open a jar. Ming-Xiong is no exception to the rule.

Still, she knows what Shi Qingxuan is doing, so it’s all about whether or not she’s willing to play along. And the gambit isn’t as tempting when said damsel just so happens to be carrying a fan that can start a cyclone at a moment’s notice, still…

The dark haired woman whips her head to the side, glaring in the direction of one of the city structures. “…Ming-Xiong? Are you listening?”

“You,” she murmurs, ignoring her smaller companion, “back off.”

She lifts one palm, a massive explosion of flames firing out.

Before they actually impact the building they explode upward into a fiery column, the form only broken by a dark shadow, hovering in the middle.

Nan Feng hovers for a moment, taking the sight of the two women in, his face illuminated by the flames.

The women in white watches him with naked curiosity—but her companion in black?

Her eyes are narrowed, ready to attack.

The deputy god gathers the flames in the column within his own hands, throwing them back at her with a loud—

/CRASH!/

But she doesn’t stumble back.

Not even a single step. The amount of strength that would take is startling—but not as much so as the way she catches the flames within her hands, intensifying them before they’re sent flying back at her opponent.

/BOOM!/

Xie Lian breathes out a sigh of relief, thankful for Nan Feng’s quick thinking, taking the attention onto himself and away from the mortals that are with them.

That’s when he notices the way that San lang is leaning over him, his arms bracketing Xie Lian’s head against the wall.

Likely to protect him from dust or any falling debris—and the moment Xie Lian seems to take notice of this, the human backs off, offering him a hand to help him to his feet.

“Thank you, San Lang.”

He doesn’t get a full blown response from the teenager—who still seems to be…

In a mood. Or sulking. The prince still doesn’t understand why—or if maybe, perhaps, he’s done something wrong…

Since he can’t answer that question for the moment, he focuses on finding A’Zhao, listening for his heart beat, then clearing away some rubble to help him out.

“Whatever that woman is—she’s strong,” Xie Lian murmurs as A’Zhao brushes the dust off of his robes. “Nan Feng won’t last against her indefinitely. We should go ahead and focus on finding the Shan Yue fern.”

“…I’m sorry,” A’Zhao murmurs, shaking his head.

“I know how to get into the city—but I don’t know where to find the fern.”

Xie Lian sighs, not blaming him—but that does make the mission more complicated.

After a moment, with a reluctant sigh, San Lang speaks, almost like he’s directly reciting something from a book:

“The Shan Yue fern is the size of a peach, has broad leaves and thin roots, and likes shade. It typically grows in the shadow of tall structures such a buildings, large trees and the like.”

Xie Lian smiles gratefully, “And the tallest structure in the city would be…”

The palace, obviously.

As they start to make their way in that direction, across the city, Nan Feng is struggling against his adversaries.

Well—just the one, really. The woman in white seems far more content to watch as her companion bats the deputy god around like a cat toy.

“He’s surprisingly durable,” Shi Qingxuan muses, perched on a crumbling wall as she watches Nan Feng struggle to block another flaming projectile, slamming him into a nearby building. “Even if fire is your weakest form of magic. What sort of cultivator is he?”

Ming Yi takes a step back, wiping the soot from her hands. “A deputy god, I think. Sent to assist the crown prince.”

“No one sent him,” Shi Qingxuan shakes her head, kicking her foot out with a pout. “No one else in the Heavens cares about this place.”

“A volunteer, then.”

Interesting…particularly when one considers how little Heavenly officials help one another willingly. Not unless there’s a prior relationship in place—and the Prince of Xianle is infamous for having no friends in the Heavenly Court.

But, speaking of relationships…

“Ming-Xiong,” she murmurs, kicking her feet “When we’re done here, and I repay the favor—will you keep that form?”

“No.”

“Please?” Shi Qingxuan pouts. “I like it, you’re so pretty this way, and you almost never play along—”

“It’s something different for you than it is for me.”

The Wind Master pouts, but…Ming Yi isn’t wrong.

She’s the only one that hasn’t ever given Shi Qingxuan much grief over enjoying her female form. She doesn’t always understand it, and sometimes she gets irritated with Shi Qingxuan’s silliness—but she doesn’t mock it.

And the Wind Master suspects, on some level, that’s because…

Ming Yi understands how comfortable she is like this. That sometimes, she prefers to be the this way. For her, this skin is just as real as her male form, where as for Ming Yi, hers is…

More like dress up.

She’ll indulge in it, even enjoys it sometimes, given her own independent appreciation of the female form—

(And Shi Qingxuan can attest—Ming Yi really, really does appreciate a woman’s body, whether she’s wearing one or on top of one.)

⚠️ TW// NSFW LANGUAGE ⚠️

But for Ming Yi, wearing this form—it is something different than it is for Shi Qingxuan.

“…But it’s still fun, isn’t it?” Shi Qingxuan pleads with a small pout. “You’re so soft like this, and you smell nice…”

Her male form is all hard muscles and sharp edges.

Shi Qingxuan is always a little soft, no matter what skin she wears—but Ming Yi’s real body is firm, almost unforgiving.

If she was being honest, she would admit that she loves it—but it also intimidates her at times.

“Do I smell bad, otherwise?”

No. He’s never unpleasant.

He smells like leather and iron—not soft or inviting smells, but there’s an undeniable appeal to them, one that makes Shi Qingxuan want, want, want.

She’s rarely ever denied anything. Any time she asks for something, her brother gives it to her—even if he grumbles at first.

As a result, Sh Qingxuan never grew out of being a somewhat spoiled child. Always sweet natured and generous, but a little impatient and greedy as well.

Until Ming Yi, she never experienced someone telling her no. A hard, firm denial.

At first, it was surprising. Frustrating.

And gods, does she enjoy it when Ming Yi tells her no. When she makes things difficult—even when she makes her cry.

“No,” she admits with a pout. “But I was looking forward to…”

She falls silent when Ming Yi’s eyes flash, and glances over to see the deputy god starting to crawl out of the rubble.

“Spin him up for a minute,” her companion murmurs. “Now.”

Shi Qingxuan doesn’t always follow orders—but when they’re given in that tone?

She usually does.

A fan snaps out of her sleeve, and with a quick flick of her wrist, a small cyclone appears, swirling high into the air, and taking the deputy god with it.

While he hovers, Ming Yi walks over, her pace slow and purposeful, until she’s standing between the Wind Master’s knees.

“I’m going to shed this form when we get back,” She starts, and when Shi Qingxuan starts to pout and protest, she grabs her by the chin—long black nails digging in until the Wind Master goes pliant, “and you can keep whichever you like, it makes no difference to me.”

The assurance isn’t technically necessary, but it makes Shi Qingxuan smile, instantly comfortable, even as she’s effectively being pinned down.

“Because when we get back,” Ming Yi continues, her tone low, eyes never leaving the smaller woman’s face, “I’m going to fuck you.”

The Wind Master’s eyes widen sharply, her cheeks flushing as the taller woman steps in, their faces close. “I’ve been thinking about it all day,” she purrs, feeling it when Shi Qingxuan’s thighs shiver in response, trying to close, but Ming Yi’s hips are in the way.

“And I’m not going to be satisfied until I’m inside you.”

She has such a blunt, rough way of speaking—a tone she never uses when speaking to the other gods. One that her intelligent, often scholarly manner never portrays.

Shi Qingxuan shudders, her face suddenly rather hot.

Shi Qingxuan’s brother would kill anyone who dared speak to her that way—if he knew. The thrill of him not knowing is half of the enjoyment.

“How does that sound?” Ming Yi murmurs, her lips maybe a breath above the Wind Masters, pulling back when she tries to lean forward.

She won’t let Shi Qingxuan steal a kiss, and that makes her whine. But, as always—the choice to give in is always hers.

And she crumbles, as always, like a thin piece of paper.

“Yes,” she breathes, thighs tightening around Ming Yi’s hips. “It sounds so good, it—”

Ming Yi gives her a kiss then—deep, a slightly messy, and quick, leaving her a mess of flushed cheeks and smeared lip stain before the taller woman pulls back.

“Good girl,” she murmurs, squeezing Shi Qingxuan’s chin once more, drawing out a pleasured little moan.

“Now, let him down.”

She steps back, and with a bored, half-assed flick of Shi Qingxuan’s fan, Nan Feng comes crashing back to earth, leaving a small crater beneath him.

/CRASH!/

The Palace of the Crescent Moon Kingdom is more like a tomb, left exactly as it was the day of the siege. Broken swords and bones still litter the ground in the courtyard, and Xie Lian has to scope the ground in front of him with his toes before moving forward.

At first, San Lang was insistent on staying by his side—but Xie Lian was firm on the fact that it would be ridiculous.

After all, he can do quite a bit without his sight, he isn’t helpless—but this is a situation where he would only slow San Lang down.

He doesn’t mind admitting that. Of his eight hundred years of life, he’s only had his sight for eighteen years or so of it. He’s more than learned how to accept his limitations.

And it’s because of those limitations that he’s able to hear the nervous breathing of someone hiding.

Xie Lian stops, peeking his eyes open in the dark, glancing around for any dangerous intruders—but other than the cursed energy that seems to cling to the city like a blanket, he finds nothing.

Shutting his eyes again, he reaches out, quick as a scorpion snake, grabbing a wrist.

It’s small, bony—that of a teenage boy, and the body attached to it jumps with fear as Xie Lian glares into the dark.

“Who are you?”

“Mr. Priest, it’s—it’s just me!” The boy cries.

Tian Sheng.

Normally, Xie Lian would suspect a trick—but he already checked for cursed aura.

“…What are you doing here?” The god sighs, his tone turning stern. “It’s very dangerous.”

“We, ah…” Another one of the merchants from the cave speaks up from a few meters away. “We thought you’d have a better chance of success with more people, so we followed you.”

“Your friend you left with us,” Tian Sheng pipes up, “he’s escorting the rest of us out of the desert right now. We thought this was the best way!”

Xie Lian sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. Well, at least a few mortals are guaranteed safety.

“You’ll have to stay close,” he mutters, straightening up. “This place is incredibly dangerous for ordinary people.”

“No need to tell us twice,” Tian Sheng shivers, rubbing his arms. “This place gives me the creeps!”

“Gege?”

Xie Lian glances over in the direction of San Lang’s voice, visibly relieved as he listens to the youth approach. “I found some.”

The others in the group hurry forward to take a look, but San Lang marches over to Xie Lian’s side with a look of single minded focus.

He reaches for the god’s hand wordlessly, crumbling the fern in his fingers into a powder simply by curling his hand into a fist before applying it to the sting, his eyes slightly narrowed.

Xie Lian is quiet, starting to wonder if San Lang really was upset over the snake.

Is he upset with Xie Lian for jumping in to protect him? He does seem rather proud, and he was able to handle the snake in the cave just fine on his own, but…

“Did it work?” One of the merchants asks cautiously, and Xie Lian lifts his head with a slightly pained smile.

But that has nothing to do with the sting at all.

“Oh, I can already feel it making a difference—it’s definitely an effective antidote.”

As he says this, he senses San Lang finally relaxing beside him, letting out a low, heavy sigh.

“Hey!” One of the merchants cries out from the other side of the courtyard. “I found more over here! There’s tons of it!”

The others move towards him, and as Xie Lian starts to follow, San Lang holds onto his hand.

“Better not to go over there,” he murmurs, shaking his head.

Xie Lian pauses, tilting his head with confusion as he hears—

“AHHHHHHH!”

At first he thinks it must be one of the merchants, that maybe one of them got bitten by another snake, but…

There’s something wrong with this voice.

Something rasping and gnarled.

Inhuman.

“CAN’T YOU SEE YOU’RE STEPPING ON ME?!” The voice howls.

Xie Lian’s fingers tighten around San Lang’s without necessarily meaning to. He certainly could have dropped the young man’s hand by now—that probably would have been more appropriate, but…

Instead, he holds on tight.

Even as they walk closer—at Xie Lian’s insistence, San Lang seems to drag his heels a bit—he holds on, listening as that voice rasps,

“Who are you people? Why have you come here?”

Xie Lian’s brow furrows as he looks around, trying to understand why the direction sounds odd…

“He’s in the ground, gege,” San Lang murmurs next to his ear. “He’s been buried alive.”

Xie Lian stiffens, gripping the young man’s hand so tightly, he lets go soon after, mumbling an apology.

This place really is just full of grim reminders, isn’t it?

“…We’re from a traveling caravan,” one of the merchants explains, “we came here looking for the Shan Yue fern.”

“Ah, I ssssee,” the voice hisses, almost like there’s a lisp, something dragging down it’s tongue. “I was part of a caravan too once…ssssome sixty odd yearsss ago…”

Sixty years? He—

He can’t be human, but Xie Lian can’t open his eyes to check, not now, surrounded by mortals.

“It’s been ssssso long sssince I sssaw other humansss…” That voice purrs, and there’s something about it that sense an ugly, disgusted shiver down Xie Lian’s spine.

“Won’t you….come…closssser?”

There’s something about it that reminds him of some sort of vermin. Like a rat, but more sinister. Something that bears a cruelty borne from weakness.

“H…How did you get that way, mister?” Tian Sheng questions.

He shrinks a little closer to Xie Lian and San Lang—the former of the two reaching out to pull the young man behind him protectively.

“I wasss planted, here…assss fertilizer…for the Shan Yue fern…”

Xie Lian grimaces upon hearing that—and San Lang is quick to reassure him;

“The one used on you was fine, gege.”

The god exhales softly, relieved, when the creature presses on—

“Issss…no one going to come clossser? That’sss a…sssshame,” it lets out a wheezing cackle. “You ssssee, I thought I …recognized one of you…”

How could that be possible?

Xie Lian has already confirmed the mortality of the group that’s with them—and for what this creature is saying to be true…that would make one of them an elderly man—

But none of them are.

“Pleasssee, I’m jussst…another human…like you,” the creature pleads.

“Is that so?” San Lang speaks up, his voice cold. “You don’t look human at all to me.”

“I am! I am, I sssweaar! I—”

Just as it’s in the middle of pleading, one of them men kneels down to pick up his hat, fallen down into the grass, and Xie Lian’s heart drops.

“Get back—!”

But it’s already too late.

A long, snake like tongue whips through the air in a flash, lodging itself deep in the merchant’s ear, before pulling a piece of flesh out with it, blood spattering across the grass.

The man is dead before he hits the ground.

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

His laugh cackles sharply, piercing through the night. “YOU’LL HAVE TO FORGIVE ME, I WAS JUST SO HUNGRY!”

Xie Lian reaches up to rub at his own ear—overly sensitive, after so many years of relying upon sound—his stomach twisting with nausea.

“GENERAL!” The creature howls.

“I STALLED THEM FOR YOU, SEE? WON’T YOU LET ME GO NOW?!”

Xie Lian pauses, his blood running cold. General. That would mean—

Someone is already watching them.

Just as the god realizes that much, San Lang grabs his wrist, yanking him to the side and behind him.

/BOOM!/

The moment Xie Lian is pulled out of the way, something heavy slams into the earth—from the sounds of it, some sort of metal club.

When he peeks through his lashes—he can see several swirls of resentful energy surrounding them. Likely the ‘general,’ and that of other soldiers.

“SSSEE?” The man in the ground cries, “I LURED THEM IN FOR YOU! CAN’T I GO NOW? CAN I GO HOME?”

The tallest of the group, a bearded man with dark eyes and sallow skin, looks the creature over with some small amount of disgust before plunging his weapon into the ground once more.

And in doing so—reveals that the creature in the the ground is just a skeleton, with only a warped, mummified face remaining.

Xie Lian can’t see that much—but he is startled by San Lang’s sudden, cruel laughter.

“The little freak doesn’t even realize that he’s dead, does he?”

Hearing that genuinely seems to vex the creature, who lets out a low whimper of denial. “I…I’m not…”

San Lang kneels down—clearly not frightened of that tongue, in spite of what they just saw. “After what you just did, you still think you’re a human being?” He snorts.

The worst part is—he doesn’t seem to realize that San Lang is speaking of the cannibalism, no—

He thinks the young man is mocking his tongue.

“My tongue is just—it’s just a little longer than average, that’s all! There’s nothing inhuman about that, you—” The creature stops.

Then, he says something that would have normally given Xie Lian pause.

“You…you can help me, can’t you?” He whimpers, eyes fixed on San Lang, filled with desperate hope. “W-Won’t you?”

The young man tilts his head to the side, eyes flashing in the dark.

“No,” he murmurs.

But he doesn’t say ‘I can’t’

“I won’t.”

Before Xie Lian can contemplate that, or ask San Lang what he means—he hears the ghosts talking to one another, and his expression turns grim.

“Listen everyone,” he murmurs, trying to remain calm. “Don’t try and fight them.”

With so many, and not knowing their strength level—Xie Lian isn’t sure he could fight them on his own, especially taking into account those two women running around the city.

And even if not for that—

His ankle and throat—they ache, just as he suspected they would.

“They’re discussing moving us somewhere to interrogate us, so I suggest going along with it for now.”

As if any of them really had the means to struggle, anyway.

San Lang straightens up, calm as ever as he takes Xie Lian’s elbow, guiding him along with the rest of the group.

“…San Lang,” Xie Lian mutters, leaning his head close as they walk, “When you were reading about the Crescent Moon Kingdom—did you ever hear about a general that this ghost might be?”

The teenager glances the figure ahead of them over.

“There was only one general when the nation fell.” He murmurs, keeping his voice low. “His name was Ke Mo. Nine feet tall, an infamously strong giant. And devoted to the Imperial Preceptor.”

Xie Lian stiffens with worry.

Does that mean he could be taking them to her right now?

A powerful savage ghosts, with this many soldiers assisting her…not to mention the number of mortals Xie Lian would need to protect…

This could get very bad, very quickly.

They already have the Shan Yue fern, and a limited time window to return…they have to escape—soon.

Preferably before dawn. But how is that even possible?

Even now, Xie Lian can sense the curving slope to the steps they;re being led up now, and he knows where they’re going:

The Sinner’s Pit.

And already, he can sense the array that covers this place.

Filled with powerful magic, likely cast with one intention: to keep anyone thrown to the bottom from escaping.

Which already seems sinister enough—but Xie Lian can’t see the look on A’Zhao’s face.

The darkness in his eyes as he surveys the top of the pit—and the figure hanging.

But, if Xie Lian could see her—

Well, the situation would be very, very different.

When they reach the top of the pit, San Lang is still holding his elbow, one hand at the small of his back—attentive in a way that makes Xie Lian smile, enjoying the familiarity.

But that peace lasts only for a moment, before a voice pierces through the darkness:

“BROTHERS!” Ke Mo roars, lifting his club over his head.

There’s a responding roar that rings so loud, Xie Lian claps his hands over his ears with discomfort.

It must be the souls of the dead soldiers, but what Xie Lian finds the most daunting is the sheer number of them. There must be hundreds—maybe even thousands.

Just how many humans would have to be lured here on a regular basis to feed them all?

And how have the heavens not noticed anything wrong?

Xie Lian feels Tian Sheng trembling with fear beside him, and he turns his head to reassure the boy—

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs. “If anything happens—I’ll be the first to charge ahead, alright?”

Which may have sounded comforting, in just about any other scenario—if not for Ke Mo’s orders to his men—

“Go ahead and toss two of them down—we’ll save the rest for questioning.”

Xie Lian stiffens, gritting his teeth.

Well. So much for avoiding a fight, then.

Xie Lian had wanted to avoid that for as long as possible, but if it can’t be helped…

His train of thought is broken, however, when he feels a rush of movement past him, with one of their group letting out a frenzied cry as he throws himself at the General.

And, of all people—

Xie Lian finds himself frozen with surprised to find that it’s A’Zhao.

The quiet, almost overly cautious guide. Making what could only be generously described as a suicide charge, because he doesn’t have a chance.

Xie Lian lunges forward, reaching;

“Wait, don’t—!”

But A’Zhao’s momentum never stops. Ke Mo simply catches the mortal’s arm, using it to throw him out and over the pit—only to disappear into darkness.

Xie Lian stops, his hand frozen in midair with shock—then grits his teeth, lowering it.

Another unnecessary loss.

And just like he did on Mount Yu Jun, Xie Lian finds himself frustrated with the shackles on his body. Never during his banishment did he resent them—but now, as a god once more, he can’t—

Xie Lian can’t even protect people properly. And it vexes him.

If he just had his spiritual powers, even one thousandth of them, he could—

“Quick, throw another one over so we can get on with this,” Ke Mo grouses, and this time, his men reach for the boy standing next to Xie Lian, Tian Sheng.

“…General, wait!” He cries, stepping forward.

Finally, that seems to get Ke Mo’s attention, making him pause.

“…You speak our tongue?” He questions, rounding on Xie Lian. “Where are you from?”

“The Central Plains,” Xie Lian replies immediately, drawing angry hisses. “Listen, we mean you no harm—”

“You think I care?”

Ke Mo is sneering now, shaking his head. “How did a Central Plainer come to know our language? Our tongue has been dead for some two centuries now.”

Xie Lian falls silent, unsure of how to explain that away easily.

Part of him considers the idea of just throwing the ‘I’m a God’ card down on the table. It might work as an intimidation tactic. After all, they don’t know that he has the shackles, and Xie Lian could probably get Ruoye to do something intimidating, but…

It’s unlikely to work.

And now, as he contemplates, the dead begin to moan in the pit once more.

“…Looks like that whelp has already been devoured,” Ke Mo mutters, irritated. “Go ahead and throw the child down.”

Xie Lian steps in front of Tian Sheng before they can.

“Please!”

He cries, throwing his arms out. “If you need to throw someone else down, throw me instead, alright?”

After all—the fall might turn Xie Lian into a bit of a pancake—but that’s happened many times before, and he knows he can survive.

Ke Mo, however, is less agreeable.

“No way—I have questions I want to ask you!”

Xie Lian grits his teeth, trying to think of a way to stall until he can think of a plan—until something makes him stop.

San Lang slipping his hand from Xie Lian’s elbow to his wrist, using his grip to lift the god’s hand up.

At first, the god suspects it must be to examine the sting on his wrist once more, and just when he opens his mouth to explain to the teenager that now is not the time—

San Lang places a kiss there, just over his knuckles—and Xie Lian’s heart goes still in his chest.

Aching with a memory, so painfully familiar, it’s hard to breathe.

“…San Lang?” He whispers, his voice unsteady. “What are you—?”

He stops, shivering when a second kiss is pressed against his hand, this time over his sting, long since healed.

“Don’t be afraid, gege.”

San Lang murmurs, his tone so gentle, it makes Xie Lian soften without meaning to, until— “I’ll be gone for just a minute.”

Those words turn his skin to ice as San Lang lets him go, walking forward.

“W…”

No.

“What are you…?” Xie Lian questions, his chest tensing.

“I said not to be afraid,” San Lang reminds him, his tone light.

The god shakes his head, taking a step forward, “I’ll stop being afraid when you get back over here,” he mumbles, heart pounding in his chest.

Xie Lian can’t explain it, but—

He’s afraid.

He’s lost countless people over the years. Seen misfortune come down upon people no matter where he goes. Grief is something that he’s become almost numb to. He makes friendships, but he doesn’t form deep attachments. Not anymore.

But he wants San Lang to get away from the edge.

Xie Lian doesn’t—

He fights to keep his breathing, and his hands tremble.

Xie Lian doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he doesn’t want San Lang over there, he—

“Don’t worry,” San Lang murmurs, glancing back at him with a smile.

And since his god cannot see—he doesn’t need to hide the affection in his gaze, the palpable softness in his expression when he looks upon Xie Lian’s face. The mortals nearby might see—but they could never possibly understand.

“I’ll always come back.”

Something about that phrasing makes Xie Lian stop, laden with confusion.

…Always? What—what does that even—?

But then, he hears the sound of San Lang’s footsteps near the edge—then nothing but a quiet rush of air.

Like he—

Like he just walked right off.

“S…”

/Thud./

He stumbles forward, arms reaching out frantically, but only finding empty air as he flees towards the edge, but—

No one is there.

/Thud./

No.

No, no, no.

He—he’s—

The god trembles, and for the first time in centuries—

He’s absolutely terrified.

“SAN LANG?!”

He trembles, peering blindly into the darkness below, seeing nothing but swirling, daunting resentful energy, and he—

Xie Lian’s shoulders square as his jaw locks.

No. Not—

Not him. Not today.

He starts to throw himself over the edge without a second thought—

But something stops him. A grip on his arm, trying to pull back up.

“I’m…not DONE WITH YOU YET!” Ke Mo snarls—

But the god is having none of it, bracing his feet against the side of the wall as Ruoye wraps itself around Ke Mo’s arm and throat, yanking.

And now, Xie Lian opens his eyes, his shackles burning up at Ke Mo through the dark, startling him as the god grabs onto Ruoye, yanking with as much strength was he can without ripping the bandage as he snarls—

“THEN WE CAN GO TOGETHER!”

But Ke Mo isn’t the only ghost who sees his shackles in that moment.

And the other, who has been hanging limply over the center of the pit for countless years now, opens her eyes, her body snapping to sharp attention.

Finally, she leaps into action.

There’s a rush of air as she sweeps over to the wall, knocking several soldiers over the side in one swoop, attacking with a fury.

“HEY—!”

“IT’S THAT BITCH AGAIN!”

But the chaos is just enough to make Ke Mo lose his grip as Xie Lian yanks—And they both tumble into darkness.

They separate quickly, with Ke Mo falling further faster due to his greater weight. Xie Lian sends Ruoye up, assuming the magical tool can latch onto something up top to slow his fall, then bring them both back up when he finds San Lang, but—

Ruoye doesn’t make it.

It slams against an invisible barrier, illuminating the spiritual energy upon contact—

/BOOM!/

But it has no effect, sending the spiritual tool fleeing back to Xie Lian’s neck as he falls.

Unable to catch himself, now—which makes for a nasty fall.

A fall.

He’s always falling

He never used to. Xie Lian used to be the one that was catching people. Lifting them up. Be it his friends, or fierce little orphans that he hardly knew.

But then, he fell from Heaven.

He fell far, and he fell hard.

Since then, Xie Lian never stopped falling.

Small trips and falls. Other times off of bridges. Or cliffs.

There used to be someone that would catch him—but since then, Xie Lian has become an expert at taking a good fall. Learning how to brace for impact. Never panicking.

And he supposes, in the end, it might be fate.

After all, he loved the boy who fell first.

And now, as he stares up at the dark mass of cursed energy overhead, he wonders how afraid that little boy must have been, falling from the sky like a star.

Wonders what Hong’er thought about, in that moment. If he had many regrets.

He thought those were his last moments. Xie Lian knows these won’t be his. He’s just bracing himself for the pain of the landing—and what he’ll find when he does.

Because he’s used to this. He’s done this before.

He’ll survive it. He always does.

But then—

/Clink!/

Xie Lian isn’t falling.

He doesn’t hit the ground. His body doesn’t smash in on itself, every bone shattering while he waits for the long, arduous process of stitching himself back together.

It doesn’t hurt. It—he—

Someone is holding him.

Someone…

Someone caught him.

There’s one arm hooked under his knees, the other wrapping around his back—cradling him against someone’s chest, instantly arresting the incredible force with which Xie Lian was plunging to the earth.

The sudden stop leaves him slightly dizzy, his head spinning.

When they land, it’s so light, like the strength of the arms around him have rendered Xie Lian utterly weightless, and—

Xie Lian can’t actually remember the last time someone carried him like this, cradling him in their arms. Maybe when he was a child.

The closest he’s come since was probably when someone was dragging him by his ankles to bury him after they ‘murdered’ him. Or maybe Lian Qianqiu carrying him to his grave, but—

This feels different—

Safe.

“…San Lang?” He whispers cautiously, reaching up for him.

He feels at the chest and shoulders of the one holding him with his palm, and—it doesn’t feel like San Lang.

The teenager is taller than him, but slender. This figure—

He dwarfs Xie Lian. No, when he’s holding him like this—his arms practically envelop the prince.

His fingertips trail up the ice cold column of the figure’s throat, finding the hard protrusion of an Adam’s apple, and—

Xie Lian flushes, pulling his hand back, realizing what’s he’s doing.

“…” He swallows dryly, his cheeks warm. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” the figure replies—and—if he’s answering to that name—

It must be San Lang, but his voice is noticeably different.

Deeper, with the sort of tone that rumbles in Xie Lian’s bones, almost familiar.,

The god swallows, his throat dry.

“Could you…put me down, please?”

He might have phrased it like a polite request, but—

“No.”

The prince didn’t actually expect San Lang to refuse him.

“…Why not?” He questions, contemplating protesting but—

“It’s dirty.”

His responses are unusually short, clipped—but even stranger is the fact that…

Well, Xie Lian spent a significant portion of his eight centuries wandering sleeping in alleyways and ditches. The idea that any surface could be too ‘dirty’ for him feels almost ludicrous, and yet…

San Lang squeezes him tighter all of the sudden, bouncing the prince in his arms until he’s tipped closer, made to almost cling to San Lang’s chest in a way that makes his cheeks heat up with embarrassment.

Xie Lian decides not to protest for now.

Maybe it would be proper of him to do so, but…

There’s a voice in his head whispering to behave himself. Which is silly. He’s the older one, if anything, San Lang is the one being badly behaved, but—

“MY BROTHERS!”

Ke Mo’s voice cuts through the darkness, raging.

“WHO KILLED YOU?!”

Xie Lian stiffens in San Lang’s arms, his eyebrows raising.

It’s only been a few minutes since he first heard those voices—thousands of them—screaming from the bottom of the pit.

What could have killed them so quickly?

San Lang squeezes him tighter all of the sudden, and then, Xie Lian realizes—

He can’t hear San Lang’s heartbeat anymore. It was always calm and steady before, no matter the situation—but now? It’s silent.

HIs breathing too.

“IT WAS YOU, WASN’T IT?!”

Xie Lian tenses when he feels Ke Mo running towards them, fingers tightening in the front of the man’s robes, “San Lang, careful—!”

But he only receives a soft chuckle in response, one hand rubbing the god’s arm soothingly.

“It’s nothing to worry about, trust me.”

The way he says it—it doesn’t even sound like bragging—it’s more like he’s almost bored, stating the obvious. Like Ke Mo is an irritating distraction, and the person holding him would much rather devote all of his attention to Xie Lian.

Just as Ke Mo gets close enough to land an attack, San Lang spins to the side, allowing the ghost to stumble past him, the bells on his boots jingling softly as he does so.

/Clink!/

“You…” Xie Lian tries again, embarrassed by the way he sounds almost shy.

“You could really let me down now, I…”

He feels San Lang shake his head, bending his chin to whisper next to Xie Lian’s ear— “I’ve got you.”

His breath is cold, but that has nothing to do with the shiver that runs down the god’s spine, goosebumps raising on his arms.

“Just sit back and relax,” he murmurs, like he’s offering to do some simple household chore like cleaning the dishes, sweeping the floor, or, well—

Taking out the trash.

He bounces Xie Lian in his arms again—and now, the god realizes it isn’t because he can’t keep him steady.

No—it’s because he wants Xie Lian to cling onto him even tighter as a result.

“…” The prince allows his cheek to rest against his companion’s shoulder, another shiver running through him.

Shameless.

Ke Mo fights somewhat like a raging bull, barreling forward with brute force.

San Lang—he seems to treat fighting like something similar to a dance. In this case, anyway.

He dodges most of the attacks with ease, never jostling Xie Lian in his arms when he dos so—and when he does decide to attack Ke Mo, he doesn’t even need to lift a finger.

In this case, he uses one foot, lifting it up to kick Ke Mo squarely in the chest—still not jostling Xie Lian as he does so—and when it makes contact, it sends the ghost flying until he violently slams against the opposite side of the Sinner’s Pit, making the walls rumble.

/BOOM!/

Xie Lian jumps, whipping his head in the direction of the sound before mumbling—

“…You can’t keep holding me forever, you know.” He feels like he has to try, just a little bit—because if he doesn’t—

Then, he’d have to focus on how pleasant it feels, being held.

San Lang’s reply is characteristically cocky, except—

“Why not?”

He sounds completely serious about the question. Like, if the option was available to him, he would be willing and able to hold Xie Lian in his arms indefinitely.

It’s not a terrible thought.

Before Xie Lian can say anything more, Ke Mo chooses that moment to pull himself out of the rubble, snarling—

“YOU SLAUGHTERED THEM ALL! I’LL—I’LL RIP YOU TO SHREDS!”

This time, he doesn’t even make it close.

/CLANG!/

San Lang doesn’t move, but…

Xie Lian can hear the clash of blades.

One of them is simple mortal steel, not bad, but not particularly special either—Ke Mo’s club.

But the other…

Xie Lian has never heard a kind of metal that makes that sound before.

/CLANG!/

/CLANG!/

/CLANG!/

At one point, when he hears Ke Mo get just a little bit too close, Ruoye strikes out as well—knocking the ghost down to the ground once more.

“…Two against one,” he snarls, pounding his fists against the earth. “COWARDS!”

San Lang snorts.

“One or two—it doesn’t change the outcome for you,” he sneers, and there’s that clash of steel once more.

“C-CENTRAL PLAINER!” Ke Mo snarls, dropping to his hands and knees, “S-SHE’S THE ONE MAKING YOU DO THIS, RIGHT? THAT…EVIL FUCKING BITCH!”

Xie Lian raises an eyebrow.

That certainly does make him wonder—but there’s something more pressing at the moment.

“…San Lang?” He questions, assuming now is as good of a time as any. They aren’t moving, and San Lang seems to be taking a hands off fighting method at the moment.

“Yes?”

“Did you…”

Xie Lian stops, trying to find a way to phrase the question delicately—but he can’t. “Those soldiers—did you kill them all?”

San Lang only misses a beat before replying—and his answer is bone chilling in it’s calmness.

“Yes.”

The god grows still, taking that in.

It’s one thing, to suspect that San Lang might be more than he lets on.

It’s another, to process the scope of power it would take to wipe out so many ghosts instantly.

“…” Xie Lian takes a shaky breath, “Make sure you don’t kill Ke Mo for now, I have questions to ask him.”

The larger man hums in acknowledgement. “If I wanted him dead, he would have been by the first blow.”

Normally, anyone would have been cowed enough by that statement, but Xie Lian—he’s never been just anyone.

San Lang pauses, surprised when he feels Xie Lian tug repeatedly at the front of his robes, like he wants him to lean down—which he complies to, bending until they’re eye level, and—

Xie Lian turns stern, letting him go and crossing his arms.

“Don’t do that again!”

San Lang’s eye widens slightly with shock as he listens, eyeing the god as he—

“You can’t just jump down any hole you come across! It’s dangerous! I couldn’t even stop you, and I didn’t know what to do…”

…Scolds him.

San Lang doesn’t seem accustomed to being scolded.

He’s silent for a moment, like he doesn’t even know how to respond—and when he does, it doesn’t even directly address the scolding itself—

“Aren’t you going to ask me something else?”

Xie Lian pauses, his brow creased. “Like what?”

San Lang is slightly tense, against him.

“If I’m human or not.”

That makes the prince pause for just a moment, his lips parted, arms still crossed, and finally—

“Well, that doesn’t really matter, does it? I don’t need to ask.”

San Lang stares down at him with wide eyed wonder, slowly tilting his head.

“…You don’t?”

Xie Lian shakes his head. “Whether you have a heartbeat or not—that doesn’t change your actions since we met.”

Which have been undoubtedly kind, thoughtful, and generous.

“If I make a friend—I care about their actions, and if we get along.” Xie Lian shrugs.

“Whether or not they’re living or dead is immaterial.”

It certainly isn’t to most of the world, particularly the living, but…

San Lang lets out a soft laugh, his embrace around Xie Lian perfectly firm.

“I suppose you’re right, he murmurs.”

The god nods firmly—like he knows.

“We can discuss the rest later, but for now—can you put me down?”

This time, San Lang doesn’t immediately deny him. “One moment.”

He starts walking—and with him comes that gentle jingling sound of the bells on his boots.

/CLINK!/

/CLINK!/

/CLINK!/

Xie Lian couldn’t tell you why, but…there’s something about that sound that brings him the most pleasant form of heartache. Something familiar—something you feel so much affection or, that it hurts—but he has no idea why.

And now, leaning his cheek against San Lang’s chest, he cracks his eyes open, peeking into what the god knows should be a pit of darkness, but—

All he sees is crimson.

Xie Lian doesn’t say a word, but he smiles faintly.

He thought so.

He closes his eyes again as San Lang comes to a halt, bending over slightly so the god can slip one leg out of his grasp, probing at the ground with his toe before he slowly eases himself down.

He’s a little woozy once he’s solidly on his feet, his shackles aching, but…

Xie Lian already knew that was probably going to be the case when he jumped into this pit—and he’s used to the feeling now, even if it’s uncomfortable.

“Thank you, San Lang,” he murmurs, turning his attention to the other ghost in the pit with them. “General Ke Mo!” He calls.

The general snarls in response, writhing on the ground—and when Xie Lian nods in San Lang’s direction, he allows the dead man to struggle to his feet.

“The ‘she’ you referred to before…” Xie Lian trails off. “Who were you speaking about?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know!” Ke Mo glares, blood streaming down his chin. “THAT DEMONIC CULTIVATOR SENT YOU HERE!”

Could he mean one of the women that they saw before?”

“You mean the High Priestess of the Crescent Moon?” Xie Lian questions. “I thought you were loyal to her.”

The mere mention of past loyalties make Ke Mo flinch, his eyes burning with rage. “NEVER!” He snarls, pounding his fists against the ground. “I’ll NEVER be loyal to that traitor. NOT EVER AGAIN!”

“You…” Xie Lian stops, his eyebrows raising even higher.

If the soldiers aren’t in league with the Imperial Preceptor, then…

“I DON’T CARE HOW MANY TIMES I HAVE TO HANG HER!” Ke Mo snarls, slamming his fists down over and over again. “I’LL DO IT FOR ALL ETERNITY IF I HAVE TO!”

Xie Lian freezes, his expression contorting.

“You…You’ve been hanging her?” He questions, his voice quiet. “That’s the person who was hanging above the pit?”

“Who else?!” Ke Mo glances back and forth between the two men in the dark, glaring furiously. “Don’t play STUPID!”

For a moment, Xie Lian can’t speak.

It’s funny, because in what comes close to being a millennia—you can really convince yourself that you’ve changed.

There are moments when Xie Lian feels so far removed from the angry, broken child that he used to be.

But now, he feels a skins breadth away from him.

The moment he heard Ke Mo say, ‘I’ll hang her,’ regardless of what the young woman had done, or what she deserved—

In that moment, he ceased being a human being to Xie Lian. Twisted into something monstrous.

And if he hadn’t changed, he would have ordered San Lang to hurt him.

It crosses his mind even now, but—

The god grits his teeth, his hands balled into fists.

He won’t.

He won’t use people again—not the way that he used Wu Ming.

He promised.

Xie Lian takes a deep breath. “I wanted to ask—”

“YOU THINK I CARE?!” Ke Mo roars.

“AFTER WHAT YOU TWO DID TO MY SOLDIERS, YOU THINK I’LL TALK TO YOU?”

“You had better,” San Lang replies calmly, his arms crossed as he stares the general down, one eye flashing in the darkness. “For the sake of your men, anyway.”

Ke Mo stops, eyes narrowed. “What…”

“What are you talking about?”

San Lang smirks, and when he steps into the moonlight and speaks again—his voice is more familiar. The way it was before—light and youthful. “Isn’t it the believe of the Crescent Moon that the condition of a corpse determines it’s next life?”

Ke Mo stiffens with horror, realizing what the ghost intends—and it almost seems too horrible for the General to comprehend. “You…you wouldn’t…”

San Lang tilts his head, and while he doesn’t lift a finger—the savage ghost before him still stumbles one step back. “Try me.”

The General trembles, then stumbles forward, like he might attack, but—

He falls to his knees instead, hanging his head low.

His men have suffered enough, over the centuries.

He can’t bear to make them suffer one final indignity.

“…Ask your questions,” he spits out.

“The Imperial Preceptor,” Xie Lian murmurs. “Tell me more about her.”

Ke Mo’s eyes narrow, burning with pure hatred. “There isn’t much to say,” he mutters, his words trembling with anger. “Other than the fact that she hated the Crescent Moon Kingdom.”

“…Hated?” Xie Lian questions, wondering how that could be.

After all—they gave her so much power.

“Wasn’t she one of you?”

“…Not exactly,” Ke Mo mutters, and his words—they make Xie Lian’s jaw lock. “She was a half breed. Her mother Crescent Moon, and her father Yong’an.”

Xie Lian doesn’t say a word, his hands balling into fists as Ke Mo tells the story. The first half of it painfully familiar.

A peasant girl—one who’s mother died of a broken heart after their father left them, leaving her to scavenge on the streets at a young age.

Constantly ostracized by both countries, but particularly the larger, well-fed children of the Crescent Moon, despised for her ‘tainted’ blood.

Until she learned magic, that is.

Then, she was cautiously allowed to serve in the Royal Court—even if it was initially out of fear.

The snakes that the Crescent Moon feared became one of their greatest weapons under her hands. But initially—no one trusted her, and she was kept in a lower position as a result.

Until Ke Mo.

She saved dozens of his men during a storm in the desert, leading to a cave collapse.

Even the ones who didn’t survive, she showed respect—burying their bodies before they had time to rot in the desert sun.

From then on, Ke Mo was her first and strongest supporter. He convinced the King to trust her. The soldiers. And eventually, the people.

She was revered.

She was trusted.

But even now, without Ke Mo ever saying one way or the other—Xie Lian suspects that she was not beloved.

Still, Ke Mo supported her, put her forward over and over again, until she was elevated to the role of Imperial Preceptor of the Crescent Moon Kingdom.

And it was then, once she had it all—the love and acceptance she likely always craved on some level, that she turned against them.

When their enemies knocked on the door, and she threw it wide open. She gave them the key with a smile.

“So,” He hisses, his eyes filled with hate.

“I hung her.”

Xie Lian doesn’t speak, his stomach twisting with nausea.

“And every time she has tried to escape—I have tracked her down, and I have hung her again, and again, and again—and I’ll do it until we’re BOTH gone from this world!”

But if that’s the case…

“…If she’s been hanging, she couldn’t have been luring people down here,” Xie Lian mutters, “but if that’s true—has it been you, Ke Mo?”

“What?” The Ghost glares. “The humans come here on their own! When they do, we do as we please—it’s probably that TRAITOR’S curse!”

“Funny you should call her a traitor,” San Lang pipes up, moving slightly in front of Xie Lian now, crossing his arms. “It’s your own stupidity that got you in this situation.”

Ke Mo trembles, his eyes burning with rage. “You…dare call my people STUPID?!”

“No,” San Lang holds up a finger, “I called you stupid. Unlike you and the people around you, I don’t paint an entire civilization of mortals with the same brush.”

“How could you judge?!” Ke Mo snarls. “You weren’t there, wars—they bring out a different side to humans!”

San Lang’s tone is cold, catching Xie Lian’s attention, “I was a soldier, once.”

He—?

“But I was never foolish enough to think a child would forget that my people brutalized her and treated her like an animal just because they gave her recognition.” He sneers.

“Now you expect pity? What, because you placed your trust in and gave infinite authority to a child who grew up under your prejudice, and expected that to work out well for you?” San Lang shakes his head with a bitter laugh.

“I never ASKED for pity!” Ke Mo snarls.

“I killed her MYSELF! I took RESPONSIBILITY!”

Xie Lian sighs, because that isn’t even close to addressing San Lang’s point, but he doubts Ke Mo would be willing to see it, regardless.

But then there’s a whoosh of air, and all three fall silent, looking up.

Someone else jumped.

“You want to talk about atrocities?!” Ke Mo snarls, pointing towards the falling figure. “SHE tormented my men, even after death! Threw them down into this pit to suffer, then created a formation so they couldn’t escape!”

Admittedly, it sounds cruel, but…

“What choice did we have, but to take the travelers who passed through the city?! We had to feed the men—and to fertilize the Shan Yue fern to protect ourselves from those filthy snakes!”

Even in death, Ke Mo is afraid of them—which is interesting.

If he was still frightened of them, it stands to reason that the Imperial Preceptor should have been able to protect herself with them before she died.

So, why didn’t she?

Instead of landing hard on the ground, like the others—the Imperial Preceptor hovers a few meters above.

Long, dark hair swirls around her like smoke, half of it fallen out of a loose braid. Her skin is fairer now, in death—but still maintains the warmer undertones that she held in life.

Her robes are hooded, made from torn silk of black, red, and silver threads.

While her clothes were once fine, and her earrings are made from expensive gems and ore—her feet remain bare, aside from one silver anklet on her right foot, bells tinkling gently in the wind.

/Clink!/

Amethyst eyes burn the same shade as the flame in her palm, flickering.

She was clearly a beautiful young woman in life—and now, in death, it gives her premature, cruel end a sense of tragedy.

“Ke Mo,” she murmurs, her voice far more delicate than her aura would imply, revealing her youth, “What happened?”

The General trembles upon seeing her.

Seething.

“You dare ask me that?!” He snarls. “After you threw those men down here?!”

“Are…” She lands on the ground lightly, the bells at her ankles clinking once again, “Are all of them dead?”

“What does it look like?! Of course they are!”

She tilts her head back, her hood falling down over her shoulders, the moonlight illuminating her face.

“…” The Imperial Preceptor stares up at that moon, bearing down upon them in the Crescent phase on this night, her eyes sliding shut. “Good,” She murmurs.

“Good?!”

Ke Mo glares, “Are you finally satisfied now that you finally got what you wanted?! Is your revenge complete, you EVIL BITCH?!”

She doesn’t flinch, her demeanor remaining calm. “I simply mean that we’re all free now, Ke Mo,” she lowers her chin. “It’s over.”

Finally, she turns her attention to the other figures in the pit, flame still in hand as he gaze finds San Lang. “Was it you who killed them?”

Xie Lian opens his mouth to try to explain it away, but San Lang replies first:

“I did.”

Calm, completely unabashed.

Now, Xie Lian speaks up, rubbing the side of his neck awkwardly, “He did it to protect me. I’m a Heavenly Official, here to investigate the disappearances in the pass, and San Lang here is my…friend.”

The Imperial Preceptor arches an eyebrow.

“The Heavens have never bothered to intervene here before,” She murmurs. “I didn’t think they cared.”

After all, she had no reason to, but there’s nothing bitter about her tone now—it’s simply tired, matter of fact.

Odd, for a resentful spirit not to despise the Heavens.

She must have some sort of wrath—if she didn’t, she wouldn’t have lingered on this long. Even if tormenting the Crescent Moon soldiers was her only purpose, she would simply disperse now, having no motive left to carry on.

Humans need certain things to carry on.

The air in their lungs. The blood in their veins. Food, water, sunlight.

Ghosts are no different—but for them, it’s resentment, desire, and need.

For her to be so strong, and to have survived for so long—there must be something driving her. Something powerful.

Still, as she grows closer, and the flame in her hand illuminates San Lang’s face, she stops—staring up into his eyes.

Xie Lian can’t see the recognition in her gaze, which suddenly becomes overwhelmed by a new emotion—shame.

Without saying a word, she drops to the ground.

On her hands and knees, not seeming to care that the blood of her countrymen stains her hands, feet, and knees, bowing as low as possible in complete silence.

“What are you doing?!” Ke Mo snarls, “Are you THANKING that bastard?!”

Xie Lian frowns, unable to tell exactly what’s going on—but San Lang steps further in front of him, his stance clearly protective as he surveys the young woman, quirking an eyebrow.

She doesn’t reply to Ke Mo, keeping her eyes fixed on the ground—

Clearly waiting for something.

“…You should get up,” San Lang murmurs, holding out one hand. “We still have business.”

She doesn’t move at first, eyes opening wide, her shoulders trembling slightly as she looks up at him.

The expression of the youth staring down at her is unreadable, and her lips quiver.

Not out of fear—no. The emotion in her gaze is something entirely different.

Slowly, she takes San Lang’s hand, pulling herself to her feet.

“…Would you like to get out of here?” She whispers, glancing at Xie Lian—who, after a moment, nods.

“We would, but that array is making it impossible,” the god explains—to which the Imperial Preceptor immediately nods, forming a small hand sign before raising her palm to the sky, and—

Just like that, Xie Lian feels a weight lift, like the shackles on his body have loosened.

Was it…really that easy?

“You’re free to go now,” the young girl murmurs, her voice so…benign. Like she genuinely means no harm.

And if this is the Imperial Preceptor—just who were those women from before?

Before Xie Lian can think much more on the matter, a voice calls out—

“Is anybody down there?” Then, after not waiting particularly long— “If nobody answers, I’m leaving.”

Fu Yao?

Xie Lian lets out a sigh of relief, “FU YAO! I’m here!”

“Your highness? Who else is with you?”

“Uh…” Xie Lian frowns, “You ought to just come down and see yourself.”

“…” From the top of the pit, Fu Yao shrugs, not seeing a flaw in that logic—before he jumps down, he tosses down an array of flames to illuminate the pit, which is certainly helpful to just about everyone else, excluding…well, Xie Lian.

The warmth is nice, though.

When he lands, Xie Lian starts explaining the situation to him as best as he can before asking—

“What about the man who was bitten? Surely you weren’t able to rake him out of the desert.”

“No,” Fu Yao shakes his head.

“I made an array for him and a few mortals who stayed behind.”

“…They could be in danger,” Xie Lian sighs, shaking his head.

“If they are, it’s because they disobeyed and left the array,” Fu Yao shrugs. “That won’t be on my hands, anyway—”

He glances over to the far corner of the array, raising an eyebrow, “Should we be stopping them?”

Ke Mo has the Imperial Preceptor by the throat, pressing her down into the ground, slamming her head over and over again. “WHY DON’T YOU CALL ONE OF YOUR SNAKES?!” He snarls.

All around them now, the firelight exposes mounds of broken bodies. Countless slaughtered soldiers, the Sinner’s Pit suddenly turned into the world’s largest mass grave.

“Ke Mo…” The girl whimpers, pulling at the hand around her throat weakly, but not fighting back. “I can’t…”

“YOU BETTER!” Ke Mo glares, punching her over and over again, until even Fu Yao winces.

There’s something obscene about the sight of a man that size pummeling a little girl, magical powers or not.

“IF YOU DON’T, WE’RE BOTH GOING TO DIE HERE! IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT?!”

Ke Mo glares down at her, struggling to see through the rage and the sadness, tears flooding down his cheeks. “THAT BOY FELT SORRY FOR YOU, DID YOU HEAR?! NOW—WE’RE ALL GONE, AND I’M THE MONSTER! ARE YOU HAPPY?!” He roars, “CALL YOUR SNAKES! SHOW THEM YOU AREN’T THE VICTIM HERE!”

“Ke Mo…” She tries again, blood shining against the whites of her teeth, eyes half lidded, “The snakes…they won’t….listen to me anymore…”

“…Someone should,” Xie Lian agrees—and clearly, from San Lang’s stiff posture and a glares the god can practically feel, he’s about to.

But given the violence Xie Lian has witnessed the young man to be capable of—allowing him to attack Ke Mo while he’s angry doesn’t seem like a good idea.

So, the god interferes on his own, flashing across the pit in a single step, grabbing Ke Mo by the arm, his grip like iron.

He only uses one hand—and yet, even a man of Ke Mo’s side can’t move, veins bulging from his forehead as he struggles.

“That’s enough,” Xie Lian mutters, his voice stern, but—

But then he stops, feeling a small hand land on top of his, squeezing softly, fingers trembling.

The words she whispers—in the space of a moment, they make an ancient, lonely mind screech to a halt.

“G…General Hua?” She whispers.

Xie Lian’s eyes snap open without meaning to, knowing he wouldn’t be able to see the person before him anyway, and yet—

The aura before him is a soft shade of lilac, burning slightly brighter in the core. Stronger than the other ghosts nearby, though not the sea of crimson that he saw before.

And that voice—it’s older, but—

“…It’s you?” He replies, his voice trembling.

From joy and sadness.

She smiles through the blood and the bruises, her eyes shining as she looks up at the god’s face, her voice cracking as she lifts her palm, pressing it against Xie Lian’s cheek.

“Y…you’re okay,” She croaks, tears rolling down her cheeks, dripping from her chin. “I…I’m glad.”

Xie Lian wishes he could cry now. He wants to. There’s an unspeakable ache in his chest, filled with the friction of different emotions crashing together, and he wants to release it—but he…

He can’t cry as easily now, as he did before.

“Oh, Banyue…” He whispers, sorrowful.

The tears flow faster, and her voice cracks.

“Y-You remember me?” She whimpers.

“…Oh, little one,” Xie Lian sighs, covering her hand with his own against his cheek. “Of course I do.”

Ke Mo makes the mistake, in that moment, of reminding Xie Lian of his presence. “WHAT’S—?!”

The god’s eyes snap in his direction, cursed shackles burning in his direction.

A little girl of mixed race being tormented by the Crescent Moon is an unpleasantly common story. He didn’t realize, when she was being beaten, who she was.

But now that he does, and he realizes—

‘Who is that person hanging there?’

He—

Xie Lian’s hands begin to tremble, remembering the tiny, impossibly small little girl who used to fit so easily in the cradle of his arms. Who would bury herself inside of his cloak to stay warm.

How little she asked for.

How frightened she was of strangers. The way she would give her own meager scraps to kittens on the street, until Xie Lian was subsidizing a small colony of strays.

And Ke Mo—

He hung her.

He—He—

/CRACK!/

It takes a moment for anyone to recognize the sound.

When Ke Mo looks down, he finds his arm limp, bent at an impossible angle, bones protruding from the skin—but his body is still in too much shock to process it. “YOU—?!”

Xie Lian clutches the young ghost to his chest, trembling from head to toe.

From rage, grief, and fear.

San Lang isn’t far away, his expression dark now, starting to put it together, but Fu Yao—

He stands on the other side of the pit, his expression a mask of confusion.

What was that reaction?

Even when Xie Lian was as angry at him as he’d ever been, he…Never looked like that.

“Ruoye,” Xie Lian snarls, his voice guttural, using a tone that makes San Lang’s eyes widen slightly with recognition.

Let him see.

“Hang him.”

Let him see how it feels, to be a broken, helpless thing, dangling overhead.

Let him see.

The bandage hesitates for a moment.

Just a brief moment, before it springs into action. And even if Ke Mo is a strong spirit, well—

This is what Ruoye does best.

It flings itself around the ghost’s throat, hauling him up, up, up, until he’s dangling over the Sinner’s Pit—from the same pole as she had been before.

“General…” Banyue rasps, wincing from the pain in her jaw. “D-don’t kill him…”

“He won’t die,” Xie Lian murmurs, his tone cold, distant. “I didn’t order that.”

She’s quiet, staring up at the god—but he isn’t looking at her.

He’s glaring up at Ke Mo, cursed shackles gleaming.

Let him see.

Xie Lian can’t stop shaking, to the point where it feels like there’s pressure on his temples, his teeth starting to chatter.

Who does he think he is, doing that to anyone? What makes him think he has the right?

Let him see.

Xie Lian won’t let him.

He won’t let him get off so—

There’s a weight on his shoulder that makes him jump—that of a hand.

Warm, familiar, paired with a voice in his ear.

“Gege,” Xie Lian’s eyes widen blearily, hurt and confused. “Come back.”

“…” The god hangs his head, lips trembling.

“…I’m sorry,” he mumbles, his voice faint. “I don’t know what came over me.”

It’s a blatant lie—of course, he knows. He’s far too disoriented to contemplate the fact that San Lang was able to recognize his disassociation and pull him back so easily, but…

Xie Lian knows exactly what happened, just now—and to have it happen in front of so many people leaves him feeling raw, ashamed, and exposed.

“…Yeah, neither do I.” Fu Yao mutters, walking closer—and while his words are blunt, his tone isn’t. It’s just—

Concerned.

“What the fuck was that?”

“…” Xie Lian swallows thickly, hugging Banyue a little tighter. The teenager doesn’t protest, leaning against him, but Fu Yao isn’t so docile.

“Your highness—”

“He just said he doesn’t know,” San Lang cuts him off, his tone sharp edged.

“Let it go.”

“Who do you think you are to tell me—?!”

“It’s alright,” Xie Lian cuts them both off, his voice still a little faint. “I just—” He swallows dryly. “You weren’t here before when I explained it to San Lang and Nan Feng, but…hanging bodies upset me,” he mumbles.

“I had a bad experience.”

‘Upset’ being the understatement of the century.

“…That’s a pretty delayed reaction,” Fu Yao mutters, watching him warily.

San Lang’s eyes flash, and Xie Lian just sighs, pressing a hand against his shoulder to make him back off.

“It’s worse when it’s someone I know,” he explains, struggling not to allow himself to remember—knowing that he’s too fragile for it at the moment. “I had…a very bad experience. Alright?”

Describing it as ‘very bad’ seems to be enough to make the deputy god get the point.

“…Alright,” he agrees, holding his hands up in a peace gesture. “Alright, fine.”

The prince lets out a shaky breath, sinking to the ground with Banyue in his arms, cradling her close.

(The ground here is mysteriously clear, for some reason.)

She isn’t quite so small anymore, but Xie Lian doesn’t care, pressing his face against her hair. “Banyue…” He mutters, “What happened to you? How did you end up here?”

The priestess swallows thickly, and when she speaks—her own voice is thick with tears.

“General Hua…I…” Her voice cracks. “I messed up.”

Xie Lian sighs, rubbing her back. He very much doubts that, even in this situation.

“…General?” Fu Yao mutters, realizing—then, his eyes widen. “You—!”

Xie Lian glances up with a shaky, slightly awkward smile.

“That was my tombstone in the cave,” he admits. “Sorry for not mentioning it before.”

“You…” Fu Yao sputters, glancing around the group with wide eyes. “You were—! How did you end up in that situation?!”

“Well…” the prince thinks back with a frown.

“Remember what I said about the circus?”

“I…what?” Fu Yao questions, exasperated, but San Lang pipes up with no issue.

“About the clown who choked during his act?”

Xie Lian nods, sheepish. “That…was partially my fault. Among other things that went wrong.”

“Other things?!”

“…And for that, and other personal reasons, I needed to get away for a while,” Xie Lian explains. “So, I ended up hiding out on the border of Yong’an, near the desert. As I recall, I was busking—and doing so well that the local soldiers didn’t believe I was bind, so…”

“…You got drafted into the army?!” Fu Yao groans, wiping a hand down his face. Honestly, it’s the worst luck—

“And while I was there, I ran into a little girl scavenging for food,” Xie Lian continues, stroking Banyue’s hair.

“She had no parents, so I looked after her as best as I could. And the rest…happens just like the tombstone said,” Xie Lian finishes with an awkward little laugh, but—

San Lang doesn’t seem to find the story very funny.

“It said that you died.”

Right. Well.

“I…pretended.”

“It was my fault,” Banyue croaks, “General Hua was trying to protect me.”

“I—” Xie Lian sighs, shaking his head. “I was trying to break up a riot, when I saw her in the crowd. I got her out, but I was too injured to escape myself, so I just…played dead.”

He can feel everyone watching him, and he waves his hands with a nervous little laugh, trying to wave off the concern. “It wasn’t so bad! I didn’t even end up buried, that would have been much more inconvenient! They just threw my body in the river! But…”

Xie Lian sighs.

“…By the time I came to, I had already drifted all the way back to Yong’an because of the current, and I wasn’t able to find Banyue again, so…I never knew what became of her.”

The young woman swallows thickly, rubbing at her eyes. “I…General Hua, after you died, I…”

She hangs her head. “My life was like before, but worse, and…I was so angry at everyone, for what happened to you…and guilty, and…”

“Oh, Banyue…” Xie Lian frowns. “It wasn’t your fault—”

“There’s—a ghost—one that you can pray to,” she explains, her voice tense.

“If people are being cruel to you. He—he helps children who are being mistreated, takes revenge for you.”

Xie Lian finds himself curious. He didn’t realize that there were ghosts out there that people prayed to. It’s…a surprising concept.

“She’s speaking about Hua Cheng.”

Fu Yao’s voice is cold now—certainly more than a little judgmental—and Banyue does seem at least somewhat remorseful, though not for that reason.

“I prayed to him…but when he came, I didn’t want him to slaughter the people that were hurting me, I…” Banyue sighs.

“I just never wanted someone to get killed trying to protect me again. Like—Like you did,” She bites her lip. “I told him I wanted to be strong, and…he taught me magic for a little while.”

“Is that your story?” Fu Yao frowns, crossing his arms. “The Ghost King corrupted you?”

Banyue sits up in Xie Lian’s arms, shaking her head vehemently. “No! He didn’t do anything like that, I—I made my own choices,” she mutters. “I came back to my homeland, ended up in a position of power, and I…” She trails off, hanging her head once more.

“I messed up.”

Fu Yao seems to have heard enough, pulling a length of spirit binding rope from his pocket. “That’s enough information for now.”

Xie Lian stiffens, his arms tightening, and the deputy god sighs.

“I respect the fact that you two have a history—but you were the one who wanted to investigate the Crescent Moon Pass. We can’t ignore the crime just because the perpetrator happens to be an orphan you used to look after.”

Xie Lian grits his teeth, and Banyue smiles.

“It’s okay, General Hua…I’m glad you came investigating. Otherwise, I never would’ve known…”

Xie Lian lets her go, however reluctantly—but as Fu Yao is tying her up, he comments—

“But I don’t think it was her doing all of this.”

Fu Yao glances up with a frown. “What?”

“Before you came down, Ke Mo told us that they weren’t the ones bringing the merchants here. That they were drawn in by the Shan Yue fern, usually because they needed to cure their own snake bites—but Banyue—she can’t control the snakes the way she used to. Isn’t that right?”

“…They’ll listen to me most of the time,” Banyue explains hesitantly. “But sometimes—they just ignore me. I don’t know why.”

Fu Yao crosses his arms, thinking. “…Why don’t you show us, then? Try summoning one now.”

After an encouraging nod from Xie Lian, Banyue agrees.

She lifts her hands, muttering a low incantation—and, surely enough, a snake appears. Launching itself towards her and wrapping itself around her bound wrists.

Compared to the others—it seems rather tame.

“Hey!” Fu Yao shouts, glancing around. “I said just ONE!”

Xie Lian stiffens, and, just as Fu Yao said—he can hear the sound of several snakes slithering closer in the pit, encircling them—but Banyue shakes her head, her voice distressed—

“I didn’t summon those!” She cries. “It wasn’t me!”

“You expect us to believe that?!”

He barely manages to dodge one as it lunges at him, summoning fire to incinerate those on the ground, and Xie Lian notices—

The snake Banyue summoned as tame—it’s the others that are aggressive.

Summoned with a different purpose.

“Would you QUIT IT?!” Fu Yao snarls.

“It REALLY ISN’T ME! I swear!”

It takes Xie Lian a moment to understand, but then he hears it.

Hundreds of forms whipping through the air, plunging towards the pit.

The sky, it’s—

It’s raining Scorpion Snakes—right down on top of them.

“LOOK OUT!”

Fu Yao tries to use a blast of fire on the first wave, crying out—

“Can’t you see?! One of them must be lying!”

Xie Lian finds himself yanked close against San Lang’s side, raising an eyebrow, “What do you mean?”

“Either she lied about the snakes—or it’s that friend of yours!”

San Lang stiffens against him, and Xie Lian places one hand on his arm with a frown.

“It isn’t San Lang, Fu Yao.”

“Your highness—I know you’re not a fool, you know exactly what he is!” The Deputy God snaps. “Why trust him?!”

“He hasn’t given me a reason not to.”

Fu Yao’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head with frustration. “That shouldn’t be the standard! How can you even stand beside him in a situation like this?”

Xie Lian smiles, scratching his head. “Well…his side doesn’t have any snakes.”

San Lang lets out an affectionate chuckle.

Just then, the sound of falling snakes gets louder, the hissing building to a dull roar, and Xie Lian frowns, concerned—just as he hears something opening up overhead, shielding him from the venomous downpour—

An umbrella.

“Don’t worry, gege.” San Lang murmurs.

“They won’t dare come under here.”

Xie Lian nods, not particularly worried about them—or Banyue for that matter, controlling them or not, the snakes aren’t a threat to her—but Fu Yao is out in the open.

“Fu Yao—can’t you make more fire?!”

The Deputy God is barely able to dodge between the falling serpents, using palm strikes to kill those that get too close—but it’s a precarious process.

“Don’t you think I could if I would?! That thing beside you is suppressing my spiritual power!”

San Lang’s expression darkens slightly at the mention of being called a ‘thing,’ rather than a person—but Xie Lian disregards Fu Yao’s argument entirely.

“It’s not me.”

“I know,” Xie Lian assures him, patting his arm once more. “But with Banyue and Ke Mo incapacitated…”

And with Xie Lian not able to use any of the spiritual power he borrowed from Nan Feng earlier, along with Fu Yao’s being suppressed…

“There must be a sixth person down here,” he mutters.

“Are you kidding?!” Fu Yao snaps, moving in a flurry to strike at the snakes.

It’s a precarious business, just not getting bitten by any of them. “It’s an open pit! No one else jumped in—we would know!”

Before Xie Lian can explain any more, he hears a surprised gasp, and his stomach turns to ice.

“…Banyue?!” He cries, looking around.

Her aura is nowhere to be found—but Xie Lian knows, with that spiritual binding, she wouldn’t have been able to leave the pit by herself. “Does someone have you?!”

“I…!”

He hears her voice, however briefly, before it disappears again.

“Banyue!” He cries in a blind panic.

He whips around under the umbrella, trying to find a glimpse of her spiritual energy—but when he tries to run, San Lang’s grip, which has been gentle up until now, turns to that of iron, locking him in place.

Xie Lian is stunned—and something else that he’d rather not say—to find he couldn’t escape the younger man’s grip right now, not even if he wanted to.

But instead of being afraid, he only feels desperate.

“San Lang!” He turns to look up at him, “Help her, please.”

San Lang stares down at him for a moment, his expression unreadable—but when he replies, his voice is surprisingly soft, given the current state of things.

“Of course.”

Before Xie Lian can say much more, he finds himself hoisted up once again.

This time by just one arm, though it still feels as though it must be as easy for San Lang as carrying a feather as he moves across the floor of the Sinner’s Pit, moving Xie Lian down to a section clear from the combat before setting him down once again.

“…San—?”

/CLANG!/

The blow that Xie Lian hears now makes him clap his hands over his ears with a gasp, because—

That level of force is somewhat shocking, two high quality weapons crashing against one another with extreme force. Enough to make Ke Mo look like a gnat in comparison.

And this time, Xie Lian still doesn’t recognize the ring of the metal from before. It’s of a quality unfamiliar to him. But the other he’s quite familiar with.

The steel of a Heavenly weapon.

“Huh?” San Lang muses, sounding completely unruffled—but intrigued.

“Well, what do you know—there really is a sixth person down here,” he smiles, eyes flashing in the dark. Not from fear, or anger—but the eager anticipation of a fight that won’t be completely boring. “How interesting.”

He passes the umbrella off to Xie Lian.

“Wait here for a minute, gege,” the youth murmurs, flexing his fingers as he runs into the dark shadows of the Sinner’s Pit.

“I’ll deal with him.”

Xie Lian opens his mouth, but—

/CLANG!/

/CLANG!/

/CLANG!/

Now, its several more blows of the same quality and force.

An actual duel now—between two fighters who very clearly know what they’re doing, but—

One clearly seems to be dominating the other with an aggressive, somewhat wild style, his attacks utterly ferocious.

/CLANG!/

/CLANG!/

Xie Lian sighs, summoning Ruoye back to him.

The fall probably injures Ke Mo severely, but—

Xie Lian couldn’t care less.

The bandage quivers around his wrist when it returns, and Xie Lian strokes it calmly, “Don’t be nervous,” he mutters, glancing around. “Banyue? Can you hear me? Banyue!”

Fu Yao is clearly becoming exhausted, his breathing ragged as he fights off the remaining snakes, completely without aid, “Maybe she’s the one who attacked you just now!”

“No,” Xie Lian shakes his head, “Banyue is a small person—she wouldn’t resort to that type of force.”

He glances around, still trying to find a trace of her aura, but…

All he sees is that of Fu Yao, and a flash of crimson, pulsing with each clash of blades.

/CLANG!/

/CLANG!/

“…And that was one hell of a blow,” the prince mutters. Not comparable to what he could do—but still

It’s more than what the average ghost could do, including Banyue. Even by the standards of Heavenly officials—no one from the middle court could do that.

“Who could it be…” He mutters, contemplating—and Fu Yao groans with frustration.

“She could be hiding her strength from you, your highness—traitors like Banyue and Xuan Ji—they’re birds of a feather!”

Then, just like that, it all clicks together.

Xuan Ji.

“Why do you trust her?!”

“…Xuan Ji,” he mutters. “That’s it.”

“What about her?!”

“I’ve got it!”

Fu Yao almost stops, then gets clocked in the face with a falling snake, barely able to avoid getting stung before he kills it.

(Which requires punching himself in the face.)

“You might as well stop now!” Xie Lian calls into the dark. “I know who you are!”

/CLANG!/

/CLANG!/

“…You think I’m bluffing?” He glares. “Just give it up and come out, General Pei Junior!”

Fu Yao squawks with surprise, nursing a bruised cheek. “What are you talking about? What does he have to do with this?!”

“Think about it,” Xie Lian mutters.

“For 200 years, the Heavens remained completely oblivious to this matter.”

Gusu was imprisoned for half that time—and unlike the Crescent Moon Kingdom, travelers were left unharmed. There was no reason for those outside of the city to know.

“Someone was keeping it quiet.”

Xie Lian mutters, glancing around, still searching out that aura.

/CLANG!/

/CLANG!/

“And do you remember what you and Nan Feng told me about him on Mount Yu Jun? What Pei Junior did before his ascension?”

Massacre.

He massacred a city, supposedly.

“You’re saying that city was the Crescent Moon Kingdom?” Fu Yao mutters. “If that was the case—why lure travelers here? What does he have to gain from it?”

Xie Lian isn’t entirely sure when it comes to motive. Slaughtering a city isn’t uncommon in times of war, sadly enough.

It might make acquiring new worshippers difficult, but…

With great victory in battle, there are always great atrocities. Pei Xiu’s patron, Ming Guang, is the poster child of such things.

The rise of Xuli was infamous—but there’s a terrible price for all conquests.

“The key to everything is the snakes,” Xie Lian mutters. Something Fu Yao, who is currently trying not to be strangled by them, isn’t thrilled to hear. “They’re the reasons the travelers were drawn in. Ke Mo is terrified of them, and they don’t listen to Banyue, so…”

Xie Lian glares in the direction of the fighting, while Fu Yao shakes his head, confused.

“How could Pei Xiu be running Ming Guang’s affair in the heavens while doing all of this? It wouldn’t work.”

“Not unless he isn’t actually here,” Xie Lian points out “It could be a clone.”

The mention of clones makes Fu Yao fall silent.

“I lived in this area for years and never saw a Scorpion Snake,” Xie Lian mutters. “Which I initially thought was odd—but it did create a need: for someone to guide you through the desert.”

Now, Fu Yao seems to be understanding.

“When we saw that thing in the ground earlier,” the fighting still carries on, even now, “I thought it was just trying to lure us in, saying it recognized one of us from sixty years ago. But what if it was telling the truth?”

/CLANG!/

/CLANG!/

“That’s…” Fu Yao trails off, his eyes wide.

Plausible.

“I thought it was strange for such a calm, level headed young man to eagerly throw himself to his death—but you just wanted to get out of the way, didn’t you, Pei Xiu?”

/CLANG!/

/CLANG!/

“Or should I say—A’Zhao?”

Finally, there’s silence, and Xie Lian feels San Lang return to his side, a hand at the small of his back.

On the other side of the pit, a new figure appears—one in dark robes with long, black hair, and smoldering eyes of amber. Banyue remains safe—cradled carefully in his arms.

“Banyue?!” Xie Lian cries her name again, now that he can see her spiritual energy—but now she’s unconscious, unable to answer.

“She’s alright, just exhausted from releasing the Array,” Pei Xiu murmurs.

That’s understandable, after keeping it up on her own for two centuries.

Although heavily injured, Ke Mo still manages to glance up, leaning against the stone wall of the Sinner’s Pit. “Who are you?!”

Pei Xiu barely spares him a glance. “General Ke Mo,” he mutters. “You haven’t changed at all.”

The General’s eyes widen suddenly with recognition.

“…YOU—! IT WAS YOU?!”

“The scorpion snakes were obviously being controlled by you,” San Lang interrupts the ghost without a care, watching Pei Xiu. “Did Banyue teach you that?”

The Deputy General looks rather worse for wear, beaten and bloody.

San Lang, however, is unscathed.

His clothes aren’t even rumpled—and, at best, he seems bored once again.

“…She didn’t,” Pei Xiu admits. “I was able to learn the method on my own.”

“Not surprising,” Fu Yao mutters. “Pei Junior has always been of high intelligence.”

Much like his patron.

“And how do you two even know one another?” Xie Lian questions.

Still hovering in the air, Pei Xiu looks down at Banyue’s face, bloodied and limp, his expression somewhat…anguished.

“I suppose it makes sense that you wouldn’t recognize my voice, General Hua.” He sighs.

“I was just a boy back then.”

But that fact is all Xie Lian needs to stir his memory, remembering—

“You…” He frowns, glancing up at Pei Xiu’s aura, “You were Banyue’s friend from back then! The Yong’an boy!”

Her only friend, to be honest. The only child that was kind to her.

Xie Lian had thought of him as a kind young man—one with quite a bit of potential. It had been a disappointment, when he got dragged into the army as well.

“That’s me,” Pei Xiu replies softly. “I only just recognized you as well.”

“HEY!” Ke Mo crows.

“GET DOWN HERE! I DON’T CARE WHAT THAT BLIND FREAK DID TO MY ARM, I’LL FIGHT YOU ONE HANDED!”

“Speak that way again, and you won’t have any limbs left at all,” San Lang remarks coldly.

Xie Lian gives him a light pat on the arm, “Don’t mind him, San Lang. I’ve heard worse.”

Somehow, that doesn’t seem to bring the youth much comfort.

“I DON’T CARE WHAT HAPPENS TO ME! I JUST WANT AT THAT MONSTER!”

“Ke Mo,” Pei Xiu looks down on him, almost irritated by the reminder of his presence, “we already fought 200 years ago, and you lost.”

“Second of all—how am I the monster?”

“What else could you be?!” Ke Mo howls, clutching his arm as he struggles to his feet. “If not for you two colluding against us—we never would have lost!”

“Delusional.” Pei Xiu shakes his head, his expression cold.

“Even if I only had two thousand men—I was always going to break through your gates, Ke Mo. And even if I hadn’t—Yong’an was a vast empire with deep pockets. You really think there wouldn’t have been repercussions for your actions? That they wouldn’t have come down on you?”

“MY actions?!” The general shouts, his rage growing palpable. “HOW DARE YOU?!”

“…If victory was inevitable, like you say,” Xie Lian murmurs, “Why did you need Banyue to open the gates?”

Pei Xiu hangs his head for a moment—finally seeming to feel a measure of shame.

“I couldn’t let anyone leave the city alive,” he mutters. “I needed her to open the gates before they could organize an evacuation.”

The idea seems so horribly cold, it almost stuns Xie Lian—a long time veteran of war himself.

“…Because they didn’t give us a choice.”

Pei Xiu’s tone turns hard, now—glaring at Ke Mo. The loathing between the two men runs so deep—it’s almost difficult to fathom.

“Even if we won the battle, Ke Mo and his officers trained the citizens of the Crescent Moon to flee into Yong’an with explosives.”

Listening to the story—the sheer brutality of it—is almost grotesque. “They were going to take down as many people from Yong’an as they could. Leaving any of them alive created a risk.”

Xie Lian’s voice is soft when he asks—

“Is that true, Ke Mo?”

“…Yes, and so what?!”

The sheer scale of the grotesque nature of the plan leaves Xie Lian speechless.

“We weren’t the ones who started the conflict! It was Yong’an, for constantly invading our borders!”

“Invading?” Pei Xiu rolls his eyes. “No one agreed to those borders but the Crescent Moon.”

“You declared the desert ours, and kept the oasis to yourselves.”

The argument is as old as time. Older than Yong’an and the Crescent moon. Older than Xianle, even.

“It was OUR ancestral land! You had no right to it!”

“All we wanted was to pass through for trade—you were the ones constantly starting fights on the borders. Allowing horse thieves to travel into our borders and slaughter our people, then shielding them from our authorities!”

“You gave us NO choice!” Ke Mo staggers forward.

“We HAD to defend ourselves!”

Xie Lian has been a student of conflict, politics, and diplomacy his entire life—and he remembers that time in the world well.

In truth, the initial blame probably lies with the kingdom of Yong’an.

By Pei Xiu’s own words—they were far larger, more powerful, and wealthy. Even if they were in the process of a decline, it had only just begun.

The central plains are vast, filled with fertile land—they didn’t need claim over the Oases of the desert.

And, in fairness—they had deep water ports and rivers that ran through the continent, so it wasn’t about a need to be able to trade.

Passing through the desert was just faster—a cost saving measure. And the proud, unreasonable people of Banyue were an irritating obstacle.

But their transgressions to the Crescent Moon, while disrespectful, were relatively harmless. They truly had no intentions of invading, only passing caravans through.

But life in the desert is harsh, and it left the people of the Crescent Moon distrustful of strangers.

Still—while the Kingdom of Yong’an was wrong for violating their sovereignty, the response from the Crescent Moon was unjustifiable.

Slaughtering innocent people in the border towns who had very little to do with imperial trading policy. Weaponizing their own citizens.

Insurgencies are common when a much weaker state faces off against a larger empire in a war. Blending the military in with the civilians makes an opponent that is almost impossible to defeat.

But it also makes casualties skyrocket—and the crimes of war become far more violent.

And Ke Mo’s actions towards the end—they were vengeful and stupid. He doomed his own nation, placing Yong’an in a position where they felt the citizens of the Crescent Moon posed an existential threat, not only the soldiers.

Their blood is on his hands, as much as Pei Xiu’s.

So yes, Yong’an might have started the war—but the Crescent Moon had no right to fight it in the way that they did.

Both sides are right, and both sides are wrong. That’s usually the way things go.

“You know…Most people from Yong’an are shameless.” Ke Mo mutters. “But you…”

He staggers towards him, “YOU’RE THE MOST SHAMELESS OF ALL!”

It’s a pathetic attempt at an attack—but still, Pei Xiu deigns to kick him. So hard that he’s sent flying back against the wall of the Sinner’s Pit once more, spitting out blood.

“Just ADMIT IT!” He screams.

“YOU DIDN’T SLAUGHTER MY PEOPLE TO SAVE LIVES! IT WASN’T FOR YONG’AN! IT WAS ABOUT YOUR OWN CAREER! THE SON OF AN EXILED MAN, DESPERATE TO MAKE A NAME FOR HIMSELF! YOU USED BANYUE, MADE HER BETRAY HER COUNTRY—AND SHE STILL THINKS THE WORLD OF YOU! IT’S PATHETIC!”

“Her ‘country?’” Pei Xiu questions coldly. “Yong’an was just as much her country as the Crescent Moon—but we never punished her for her blood. Banyue was no traitor—she simply chose a side early on, and she stuck with it to the end.”

He holds her closer now, almost protective.

“You dare call her a traitor?” His voice—normally so calm and level, takes on an entirely new tone. “You speak to me as though I’m the one who used her, when she was never more than an animal to you people until she became useful?”

Pei Xiu’s gaze narrows into a hateful glare.

“You were always the monsters,” he hisses, “and I have no remorse for executing you.”

In that moment, his motive becomes clear:

‘It was for her,’ Xie Lian realizes, his breath catching. ‘All of this—he did it for her.’

Now, a new voice rings out across the Sinner’s Pit.

“No remorse?” It’s artificially loud, clearly being projected by magic. “What a statement!”

A wind rips through the open chamber, powerful—and to Xie Lian’s wary recognition, familiar.

“Then what about the innocent people you lured here? Do you feel remorse for that?”

Before Xie Lian can say or think anything more—they’re swept up again by a powerful cyclone, sucking every one of them up and out of the pit.

San Lang keeps hold of him this time—and with the help of the umbrella, they land safely on top of the wall.

Fu Yao lands heavily beside them, coughing, only for someone to catch him by the wrist, the other batting at his hair.

His chin snaps up with a glare, “Are you SERIOUSLY still touching my—?!”

That hand grips his hair then, fingers intertwining with the locks at the base of his skull, yanking his chin back so his partner can glare down at him. “Say something about me touching your hair,” he snarls, “ONE more time!”

Fu Yao doesn’t say anything, actually.

He just stares up at him, eyes wide, lips slightly parted—and both deputy gods start to realize how the whole thing looks, their cheeks darkening.

“…Nan Feng!” Xie Lian cries, clearly relieved. “You’re alright!”

He lets go of Fu Yao immediately, bowing his head.

“Yes, your highness—I’m glad to see that you’re alright as well.”

“…He’s been beaten half to shit, though,” Fu Yao comments, poking at one of the bruises on Nan Feng’s cheek—clearly amused.

Xie Lian pauses, surprised. Did those two women really—?

“Your highness,” that same voice from before speaks up again—that of a woman, warm and friendly. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Ah…” Xie Lian smiles awkwardly, taking in the familiar auras before him before politely extending his arms in a bow. “Greetings!”

Honestly, he feels pretty bad now, for mistaking her and her companion for evil spirits…

What he can’t see now, is the way that San Lang is eyeing her companion, the two of them making tense, sharp eye contact.

The dark haired woman lifts her chin, almost defiant—and San Lang’s eyes flash with warning, his fingers tightening slightly around the handle of his umbrella, but saying nothing.

From behind them, Pei Xiu drops down to his knees, bowing his head.

“Lord Wind Master.”

The…Wind Master?

“…Nan Feng,” Xie Lian whispers, leaning over to his friend, tugging at his sleeve. “Why didn’t you tell me that this was the Wind Master sooner?”

The deputy god rankles, clearly un comfortable. “How should I know?! I’ve never seen the Wind Master like this!”

San Lang watches as the Wind Master speaks to Pei Xiu, her expression stern, then explains herself to Xie Lian.

All the time, He Xuan’s voice is ringing in their private array.

‘I didn’t know it was him, when I sent that fireball. And the storm wasn’t even me!’

Silence.

‘You think you can just give me the silent treatment forever?’

Hua Cheng doesn’t even look in her direction, his arms crossed.

‘This isn’t—’

‘If you think I’m bothered by a tiny ball of fire, you have severely misread the situation,’ Hua Cheng responds coldly.

Then, he makes the water demon’s blood turn to ice—

‘I’ll deal with you later.’

In the meantime, the Wind Master determines that she’ll take Ke Mo and Pei Xiu back to the heavens herself, while Banyue is left in Xie Lian’s custody.

A courtesy on her part—one he’s grateful for.

“I’ll handle the rest of this,” She murmurs, holding her whisk aloft, “I would lay low, for now.”

“Could we hurry up and leave?” Ming Yi grouses, unamused.

“Don’t rush me, alright?” The Wind Master whines, but—alas, they should hurry back. “Until next time, your highness!”

They disappear in a flurry of wind—and San Lang watches with an air of approval.

“She’s a rather courteous one, for doing that.”

Xie Lian glances at him curiously. “Is she really?”

“She’s sparing you from dealing with Pei,” Nan Feng explains. “He’ll definitely be offended.”

Xie Lian sighs, not entirely surprised. After all—it explains Ling Wen’s initial warning.

She must have known far more than she let on.

“Understandable, I’m sure he was very invested in Pei Xiu’s career, but…” Xie Lian glances up with a frown. “What about Lord Wind Master?”

“Won’t Pei be angry with her as well?”

Nan Feng shrugs, shaking his head. “She’s half your age—but she’s far more popular in the Heavens.”

Xie Lian winces, a little sheepish.

“Besides—Pei wouldn’t dare. She has a patron he wouldn’t want to anger.”

A patron more powerful than Ming Guang? Xie Lian struggles to imagine who that would be, other than Jun Wu himself.

Then again, it’s been a very long time since he was a part of the Heavenly court—the landscape has certainly changed.

It’s a simple matter, returning to where Fu Yao left Old Man Zheng and the other mortals in the desert, treating him with the Shan Yue fern.

As he recovers, the young boy—Tian Sheng, walks over to Xie Lian’s side. “…Excuse me, Mr. Priest?” He questions.

“Yes?”

“You’re a god, aren’t you?” Xie Lian jumps, clearly startled.

“I—Ah—”

“I saw you throw yourself into the pit for me,” the boy explains, “but you and your friend game out fine!”

“…Well,” the prince smiles, glancing around nervously. “Don’t tell anyone?”

Tian Sheng nods eagerly, looking around. “We were lucky that you were there! And say—where’s that girl from before? She knocked all those soldiers into the pit. That was how we escaped! I’d love to thank her…”

“Ah, you see…” Xie Lian pulls out a clay pot, “She’s in here.”

Tian Sheng stares, somewhat disbelieving. “…That looks like something you’d use to pickle vegetables, gege.”

That draws a quiet laugh from the god. “It does—but weaker spiritual creatures can be stored in objects like this for travel. She’s rather tired now and needs to rest.”

The boy nods, rising to his feet. “…Really, thank you so much, gege.”

Xie Lians eyes widen slightly. Somewhat similar to Ling Wen—he isn’t used to being thanked.

“Without you—I’d never be able to see my loved ones again, so!” He pounds his chest, making a passionate vow.

“When I get back to my village—I’ll build a temple for you! It’ll be huge, I swear!”

San Lang watches the scene from a distance with his arms crossed, a smile on his face.

“Well…” Xie Lian straightens, holding the pot in his arms, “thank you very much then—and safe travels!”

The merchants go on their way after that—leaving Nan Feng, Xie Lian, and San Lang standing together in the desert, watching them go. Fu Yao left already, accompanying the Wind Master back to the heavens.

“…You shouldn’t worry about Pei, even without the Wind Master.”

San Lang is the one to make the comment, his hands clasped behind his back as he watches the party go—and Xie Lian turns to him with a curious expression.

“He’s proud—he won’t be petty, or resort to cheap tricks. Keep to yourself, and you should be fine.”

Nan Feng watches him closely now, like he’s slowly beginning to realize something.

“…Maybe that’s why you looked familiar before,” He mutters, watching San Lang closely. “You look kind of like Pei Xiu and Ming Guang.”

What with the posture, the hair, and the menacing aura of overwhelming arrogance.

Xie Lian can barely remember what Pei looked like, so it’s hard to judge—and he has no idea what Pei Xiu looks like as an adult man.

“Is that so?” San Lang replies breezily.

“I’ve never met him, so I wouldn’t know.”

Xie Lian turns his head back and forth between the two, before clapping his hands together. “In any case!” He exclaims, “I owe both of you for all of your help on this investigation. I should treat you.”

He turns to Nan Feng with a warm smile, “Would you like to come to my shrine for a meal?”

Of course, the immediate spike of his heart rate and the blood draining from his face was an intended response, but Nan Feng is polite about it, pretending to get a message in his array.

“I, ah…General Nan Yang has urgent business for me, your highness,” he mutters. “I should return to the heavens at once!”

Xie Lian smiles, unsurprised. “That’s too bad…tell him I’m thankful for his help once again, will you?”

In a matter of moments—Nan Feng has left.

Leaving them alone in the desert. Normally, Xie Lian would be worried about making their way back, but…

“…What would you like, then,” he murmurs, turning his head in the direction of his companion, lifting his chin and opening his eyes, revealing his shackle.

“Hua Cheng?”

Before him is a sea of crimson once more, expanding across the entire desert horizon, but…there, in the middle, is a silver core. Warm, inviting—not frightening at all.

“…” The Ghost King is quiet for a moment, examining Xie Lian’s expression closely, looking for…

Fear—disgust, or disapproval.

Finding none—he smiles, leaning in. So close, that Xie Lian can feel his breath, can sense how close their faces have become, and he doesn’t know why, but his lips are tingling. Is that normal? He—

“I would prefer it if you called me San Lang.”

Feng Xin’s life has always been defined by battle tactics, in one way or another. It’s the first language he ever learned, from the hands of his father.

There are three modes of living: attacking, defending, and retreat.

When he was young, everything was about the attack.

Feng Xin attacked things he didn’t understand. Things that frightened him. Things that frustrated him. He protected what he loved ferociously—and never retreated. Not until he was ordered to.

He hasn’t changed since then—but he often wishes that he had.

And now, he…

The minute he steps back into his palace, he’s slammed against the wall, his eyes widening slightly as he instinctively reaches out, grabbing his attacker by the front of the shirt, twisting them around and pinning them down, only to get pulled in.

…He’s usually on defense.

But there’s really no defending from someone who knows every weak point in your armor. From someone who has a key to the castle gates.

Mu Qing has always tasted familiar, even the first time, when it should have felt alien.

And now, after eight centuries of battles, there’s nothing more familiar than this.

“That other skin of yours…” Mu Qing mutters, hands bunched up in the front of Feng Xin’s robes, words cut off between kisses and stolen breaths, “Is fucking hideous…”

He says that about every form Feng Xin wears, but it never stops them from ending up back here. Except—

It’s been quite a while, since they did this. Three centuries, in fact.

And this is the only time that Mu Qing has initiated the physical contact.

Usually, his form of ‘initiating’ is antagonizing Feng Xin until he starts it, that way he can dangle it over the god’s head teasingly after, but this—

Feng Xin slides his hand up into Mu Qing’s hair, fingers tightening, just as they did before, earning a small moan in response.

“…You really liked that, didn’t you?” He mutters, a frustrated grunt slipping out when Mu Qing’s palm presses against his chest, shoving him away.

“More like I was testing a theory,” the god drawls, staring up at him impassively, his arms crossed.

“…Theory?”

Mu Qing doesn’t answer him, leaning back against the wall for a second, working through the process of catching his breath.

It’s been three centuries, yes—three centuries of avoiding one another, since the last fight they had.

That’s one misconception about them:

Whenever people see them arguing, it’s always, ‘Oh, Nan Feng and Xuan Zhen are fighting again, what else is new.’

But that isn’t them fighting. Those are spats. Or maybe you could call them disagreements.

When they actually fight, someone always gets hurt, and the scars linger.

And three centuries ago—the scars that they left on one another ran deep.

Mu Qing hasn’t spent that much time with Feng Xin since then, not until these last two missions. And being down there, on either side of Xie Lian, arguing over stupid shit that doesn’t matter, it…

It was reminiscent, in many ways, of the way that they used to be—and it made Mu Qing wonder…if they did this again…if it would feel the same. If Feng Xin wold respond in the way that he always did.

And, no surprise, the most consistent person Mu Qing knows hasn’t changed.

He just really thought—always thinks, in a way—that Feng Xin is going to push him away in disgust one day. That eventually, his dislike of Mu Qing will no longer allow him to indulge in…

Whatever this sexually charged game of cat and mouse is, anyway.

When Feng Xin sees that Mu Qing is about to leave, however, he does have something to say.

Something that isn’t quite playing defense.

“I have a theory too, you know.”

Mu Qing stops, one foot towards the door, then turns around and crosses his arms. “Oh, this should be good.”

“About your cultivation method.”

Finally, the other god goes stiff—his eyes slightly wide. “…What about it?” He questions flatly, his shoulders already hunching defensively.

“It requires being pure of mind and body,” Feng Xin explains, staring him down.

They both know—Mu Qing has only ever achieved the latter with complete success.

Someone ‘pure of mind’ wouldn’t react that way to someone pulling at their hair. They would probably smile with serenity and start reciting the ethics sutra.

Like Xie Lian would—but not Mu Qing.

“If you have a point,” the martial god mutters, his gaze sharp, “Go ahead and make it.”

Feng Xin’s father was a soldier, his grandfather before him. He comes from a long line of imperial guards of Xianle, and in many ways, it’s still all he knows.

Attacking, defending.

And when he’s been attacking—almost always—the target has been Mu Qing.

This isn’t entirely meant to be an attack. It isn’t meant to cause harm—but that doesn’t mean that it won’t.

“You’ve been here long enough to learn other cultivation methods,” Feng Xin points out.

“But you haven’t.”

Mu Qing’s eyes have always been incredibly dark, but full of depth—and now, they seem even more shrouded than ever. “Most gods don’t.”

But Mu Qing clearly isn’t disinterested in physical intimacy—despite his claims of not missing out on much.

“I think it’s because of me.”

Because if celibacy wasn’t a barrier to entry, Mu Qing wouldn’t have an excuse to stop this, over and over again.

Normally—Feng Xin isn’t so pushy. Mu Qing shoves him away, and he grouses, but he lets it go. But—

They’re getting too old for this.

Feng Xin isn’t delusional. He isn’t living under the pretense that they’ll ever be more than something between friends and enemies. But—

Wouldn’t their lives just be easier if they got whatever this tension is between them out of their systems?

Maybe then they could move on.

Because eight centuries of rising tension is exhausting to navigate, and if they just broke it—

Maybe he wouldn’t end up going back to Mu Qing like this, over and over again.

Mu Qing’s first instinct, his only instinct really, is to think of something hurtful.

That’s what he’s doing right now. Running through scenarios in his head. Trying to find the one where he hurts Feng Xin just enough to make him back off—

Like a snake rattling it’s tail. A warning.

Don’t come close. Don’t hurt me. I’ll hurt you first, and I’ll hurt you worse.

But then he remembers something. Something that makes him stop.

What Xie Lian said, when Fu Yao tried to say that he wasn’t heartless.

‘I’ve always known that.’

At first, Mu Qing distrusted it. Thought it was just an attempt to look generous and saintly, but…

‘I think that sometimes, he’s so careful about guarding his emotions from others…people misunderstand him.’

That felt sincere. And—if that’s true—

Mu Qing isn’t particularly brave. He doesn’t like putting himself in the position to feel afraid, or insecure.

And he especially doesn’t like change, so he’s never tried to change himself, either. Treated any opportunity to grow like an existential threat, but—

For once, he tries something different, even if it might not initially seem that way.

“If that theory of yours was right—have you ever thought of why I would want an excuse not to sleep with you?”

Feng Xin stops, his eyebrows knitting together with frustrating (and somewhat endearing) concentration.

He’s not stupid, but fairly lacking in emotional intelligence.

“I always thought it was about pride,” Feng Xin admits—because that’s what it is for him.

And hearing that—it wounds Mu Qing a little bit, because no. He isn’t particularly prideful. He has a self aggrandizing veneer, but actual pride—

That requires self worth.

For Feng Xin, sleeping together would mean admitting the attraction exists. Bending his pride. But—Mu Qing admitted the attraction so early on, it’s just an accepted fact for him.

He’s been far more aware of his own feelings for far too long.

“…Why,” Mu Qing is quiet, his tone not overtly harsh, the way it usually is when he asks Feng Xin a question, “would I want to put myself in a vulnerable position with someone who thinks so little of me?”

He was desperate enough for that when he was young.

Feng Xin could have had him in any way back then, and Mu Qing would have accepted it—because he was so desperate for a form of acceptance that he could trust.

And someone wanting him like that—that felt concrete. He could believe that.

Until—

‘Your highness…’

There’s no way to describe that kind of heartbreak. It isn’t special. It’s actually fairly normal, but that doesn’t make it easier.

To be a teenager, in love for the first time—wanting someone that badly—and feeling someone else’s name against your lips, said with such longing.

Mu Qing might be self destructive by nature, but he doesn’t have it in him to put himself through that again.

That was why he left. Because he knew, when Xie Lian came back—if he ever came back—

Mu Qing would hate him a little bit, even if it wasn’t his fault.

Feng Xin stares down at him now, his face still pinched with thought, trying to wrap his mind around what Mu Qing is saying—

“I don’t—”

“You’re only pushing this now,” Mu Qing stares back at him, eyes expansive in their lonesomeness, “because of the last few weeks.”

“Because you saw me helping the prince. I don’t know if it made you think I had changed, or what—but you don’t think I’m a good person. You never have.”

And Mu Qing can admit—he probably isn’t.

But Mu Qing knows how Feng Xin treats someone he respects. Someone he cares for.

He doesn’t treat Mu Qing that way. He never has.

And while Mu Qing is open to many forms of self destruction, he isn’t particularly brave. Not brave enough to let Feng Xin in that deep, just to make it hurt all over again.

“…I don’t…” Feng Xin swallows dryly, struggling.

“Don’t what?”

“…I don’t think that,” The martial god mutters, averting his eyes.

Liar.

Mu Qing grits his teeth, his throat tight.

Liar, liar, liar.

“You honestly expect me to believe that?”

“Why would I lie about it?”

Mu Qing’s chest hurts. Breathing feels punishing.

Because he wants Mu Qing to give him what he wants. Even if he’s never been like that before—

People are always like that. He—

Mu Qing feels like a rubber band rapidly reaching the end of it’s elasticity, ready to snap.

He’s tired, he hurts, and he’s scared.

“…You still treat me like you did when we were teenagers,” Mu Qing mutters, staring pointedly at the floors. “Like I’m some uppity servant waiting to fleece my master the first chance I get. And you expect me to believe that you don’t think I’m a bad person?”

“…Fleece your—?” Feng Xin throws his head back, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I never once accused you of stealing from him back then. Why is that always the first thing you go back to?”

“You didn’t have to say it out loud,” Mu Qing mutters, shaking his head “You hated me.”

“Mu Qing—I-I really didn’t,” It’s hard not to lose his temper, in the face of what he views as an asinine refusal to be reasonable—but Feng Xin tries. “And it’s been eight centuries. You want me to say I don’t think you stole the pearl?”

He throws his arms up, exasperated.

“Fine, Mu Qing—I don’t think you stole the STUPID fucking pearl! And his highness was never going to let something happen to you, even if you had. It’s been eight centuries—why does it even matter?! What’s the point in being so goddamn paranoid?!”

“I had a reason to be!”

“What, because you didn’t give back a block for a golden palace one fucking time?!” Feng Xin groans. “You think I cared about that?”

Of course, Feng Xin wouldn’t understand. His position was never that precarious. But—

Mu Qing’s eyes snap back up to him sharply.

“You really don’t think I’m a bad person?” He repeats, watching the building frustration in Feng Xin’s eyes.

“How many times do I have to say it?!”

Mu Qing doesn’t trust him. He doesn’t believe him, but—

He gives Feng Xin a chance. One, solitary chance to prove it.

“Then I’m going to tell you something,” Mu Qing mutters, his arms so tight around his middle that his ribs physically ache, just to hide the fact that his hands are trembling. “And if you can honestly look me in the eye and say that again the next time we’re in this position…”

And let’s be honest—there will be a next time.

They always end up here.

“I’ll believe you.”

Feng Xin crosses his arms, clearly mimicking Mu Qing’s posture—but not in a mocking way, more like he’s bracing himself. “Fine. What is it?”

“It wasn’t about the golden palace.”

Feng Xin stares, trying to understand what he’s getting at, because it seems so out of the blue—and Mu Qing takes a deep, shaky breath.

Some secrets are so old, so horrible, that telling them feels like peeling off your own skin.

“That wasn’t why I was so paranoid back then.”

So terrified of losing his place. Of what would happen to him if there was the slightest hint of suspicion on him—for any reason.

Of what would happen to him. To his mother. His little siblings.

Feng Xin stares, watching how pale Mu Qing has become—the way his lips tremble.

After eight centuries—whatever it was, it bothers him that much?

Because right now—Mu Qing looks absolutely terrified.

“Mu Qing, what—?”

And of anything that Feng Xin could have guessed in the moment before Mu Qing spoke—

“I was a murderer.”

—it wouldn’t have been that.

Feng Xin is silent for a moment, trying to wrap his head around that statement. “You…what?”

He was that paranoid when they were teenagers—that worried about something as small as being accused of stealing an earring—because he—?

“By the time the palace even hired me.”

That makes Feng Xin even more wary, struggling to wrap his mind around what Mu Qing is trying to say, because—

That was before Feng Xin even knew him. And—

They were thirteen when they first met.

How could he…how could he have—?

“Was it…”

For once in his life—Feng Xin speaks cautiously, his tone lacking the anger or aggression he had before.

Just…shock.

“…Self defense?”

Because for someone that age—he can’t imagine another—

Mu Qing breaks eye contact, hanging his head.

“…No,” he croaks. “It wasn’t.”

There’s a difference between killing someone and murdering them.

Feng Xin and Mu Qing fought a war side by side. He’s seen Mu Qing kill countless times.

But he used the word murder intentionally. It was carefully phrased.

Mu Qing feels almost nauseous. His knees are weak.

“I slit someone’s throat in their sleep. It wasn’t self defense. I made a choice.”

One that he would have been executed for, easily. Or his mother, if she had tried to take the fall for him.

And Mu Qing knew, in his bones, that she would have.

She thought it was her fault.

“…Did anyone else know?” Feng Xin questions, because—

He doesn’t think Xie Lian could have. When they were that age…the prince honestly thought the worst thing that could happen to a person was being forced to eat something green.

“My mom,” Mu Qing mutters.

Feng Xin isn’t entirely surprised. Mu Qing’s family was poor, but incredibly close knit. Especially after his father’s passing.

“…and the King.”

But that—that completely throws Feng Xin off kilter, making him sputter with shock.

He doesn’t think Mu Qing is lying, but…

How could the King, knowing that, allow Mu Qing close to Xie Lian? And—

Why would he bring a murderer into the palace to begin with? It—

Feng Xin’s stomach sinks with discomfort, and his right arm aches painfully from a ghost injury. An unpleasant memory.

It sounds like a coverup—to protect someone of higher status.

The King had done such things many times before. Which implies…

That there’s more to it than what Mu Qing is saying, because Xie Lian’s father would have had little reason to protect him.

“…What were the circumstances?” He questions, eyeing Mu Qing closely.

The martial god doesn’t say a word, his hair hiding his expression.

“I’m not talking about that.” He mutters, his voice hoarse.

Feng Xin’s brow furrows—frustrated and confused.

“Then why tell me?”

“You want me to believe you didn’t think I was a bad person all this time?” Mu Qing mutters, lifting his chin.

He’s all naked bravado now. Pale, with gaunt eyes and quivering lips—but—

Feng Xin’s heart aches as he watches Mu Qing attempt to sneer, even now.

“You’ve known me for more than eight hundred years. You can think back on how you felt about me all that time—and you can decide if you think I had a good reason or not.”

He turns around quickly, his hair slapping Feng Xin in the face.

“Then—maybe next time, I’ll believe you.”

He makes a show of marching out, his head held high—but really, he’s fleeing. And by the time Feng Xin has recovered from the shock enough to speak—

He’s standing alone in the entryway of his palace, and Mu Qing is gone.

It was a terrifying thing to do, and Mu Qing…

He doesn’t handle fear particularly well.

When he makes it back to his own palace, he ignores his own deputies and servants, making his way down to his rooms, and doing the same thing he used to do, when he was small.

He hides under his own desk.

Knees pulled against his chest, arms wrapped around himself, taking comfort in a small, enclosed space until the hyperventilation stops.

It’s been so long, but peeling that back, even speaking those words—

It felt like breaking open an old scar.

He’s never been honest with anyone about it. He’s never given anyone the chance to accept him, in spite of it.

No one has ever had the chance to reject him either.

And it might be karma. It really might be fucking karma, because—

In the end, he would regret telling Feng Xin.

⚠️ CONTENT WARNING: NSFW CONTENT AHEAD ⚠️

For those who don’t want to read NSFW content, scroll until you see the ⚠️ symbol.

Regret is a complicated feeling. Like a weed that climbs and twists inside of you, ivy on brick. It starts as something small, but it never ends that way.

It can wear the face of hope or desire.

But sometimes, regret is one side of a coin flip, and the other….

Is revenge.

If there’s one thing He Xuan has developed over the years…

“O-oh god—!” She chokes, fingers tightening in his hair, thighs quivering around his ears, heels digging into the muscles of his shoulders.

He smirks, hands tightening around her hips.

…It’s a sense of irony.

“In a place like this,” he murmurs, turning his head to nip at the soft skin of her inner thigh, “you’re going to have to be a little more specific.”

She opens her mouth, but all that comes out is a choked cry when he dives back in, working his tongue over her.

It’s been a long day, he’s built up quite an appetite—and before he sleeps…

He Xuan wants the simple pleasure of devouring something.

“M-Ming-Xiong!” Shi Qingxuan pants, eyes rolled back into her head, nails scraping at his scalp as she pulls at his hair. “I-I—!”

His tongue dips inside, and she actually squeals, her legs flailing against his back, spine arching as her other hand clutches at the pillows behind her head—and he smirks.

Cute.

“I c-can’t!” She sobs, turning her face into her own bicep, hips rocking into his mouth.

“I—”

She’s such a fucking baby, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes, toes curling in pace with his tongue as it flexes inside.

“I really, really can’t!”

He Xuan has had her in every possible combination of form since they started doing this.

With every possible version of himself.

Well. Except for the real one.

And in every single one, she’s been desirable. If he was feeling generous, he would say that Shi Qingxuan was beautiful in every iteration.

But it’s been a long day, and he’s not feeling kind.

He likes her like this, though. Likes how soft and supple her thighs feel around him. Craves the narrow dip of her waist under his hands. Memorizes the sight of her breasts heaving with pleasured gasps.

But most of all, he likes watching the way her makeup runs when she cries.

Eyeliner running and streaking from the corners of her eyes, smeared lip stain—giving her this ruined, half undone look.

It makes every inch of him pulse with want, like a lion waiting to go for the jugular.

“I-If you don’t stop, I-I’m gonna—!”

“And?”

They make eye contact, even if the sight of his face…there…makes her flush and squirm, held in place by the iron grip on her waist.

“I can make you finish as much as I want, when you’re like this…” He muses, maintaining that eye contact as he rolls his tongue over her again.

“O-oh—!”

“So,” his hands slide down from her hips, gripping her inner thighs instead, wrapping all the way around as they dig delicious bruises into her flesh.

“Go ahead.”

He dives back in, with such a ferocity that it makes her tremble, both hands sliding into his hair.

Thankfully, Ming Yi’s palace doesn’t have any deputy gods or servants crowding the halls.

“M-MING-XIONG!”

She can scream to her heart’s content as her body convulses, heart pounding in time with the throbbing between her legs, and—

He Xuan devours her climax, insatiable.

Swallows every inch of pleasure, every scream, moan, and whimper whole.

He starts kissing his way up her torso before she’s even stopped shaking, nipping at her navel, her ribs, lavishing her breasts with his teeth and tongue.

And she says that name, over and over.

Ming-Xiong, Ming-Xiong, Ming-Xiong.

But not his name. Never his name.

She only knows how to repeat the lies he told her.

“Ming—!”

Shi Qingxuan cuts herself off with a choked moan as his hand envelops her throat, squeezing.

He stares down at her, eyes dark, churning.

Shi Qingxuan knows him as the earth master, but she’s never thought the title suited him, not really. There’s something about him that reminds him of the waters she used to watch outside her window at night, as a child.

Black and swirling, dangerous—but tempting.

It’s the mystery that draws you in, when you see the sea at night. The way it blends in almost seamlessly with the midnight blue of the horizon.

It seems like the biggest thing in the world, and you have no idea what lies beneath.

Not that she ever tried to find out.

Ironically enough, despite being sibling to the God of Water—Shi Qingxuan has never been a strong swimmer.

When He Xuan looks into her eyes, he sees something markedly different.

Bright, vibrant shades of green. Colors that remind him of warmth, forests, and summer.

They’re hopeful. Full of good memories, hope, promises for the future.

Those eyes are all of the things that He Xuan cannot be.

All of the things that were stolen from him.

Shi Qingxuan pants, wrapping one hand around his wrist—and her gaze turns questioning.

“M-Ming—?”

She’s always tight in the wake of an orgasm—and now, when two fingers plunge inside, there’s a pleasurable stretch in the feeling of being spread open, her eyes rolling back into her head as they make scissoring motions inside.

He watches, eyes dilated in the dark.

Takes in every inch of the sight.

How small her throat looks under his fingers. The way her hips tremble as they rock into his hand.

Shi Qingxuan isn’t big, for a man—but as a woman, she’s even smaller.

Vulnerable, eyes half lidded from the pleasure as his fingers work deeper.

He could crush her right now. It would be so stupidly easy. And she would let him, drinking in pleasure until the last second, never knowing what was coming.

Instead, he slips a third finger inside, watching the way her lips part with a silent gasp, eyes growing wide.

This wasn’t part of the plan.

He Xuan doubts anyone would believe him, if he said that. This position doesn’t exactly leave him looking particularly innocent.

But at the end of the day, he’s a starving man who is prone to his indulgences, and she…

She wanted him.

It started as sneaking glances and touches that lingered a little too long. Teasing that was too embarrassingly obvious to be mistaken for anything but flirting, even if the little idiot thought it was subtle.

And He Xuan, he…

He wanted her. And he couldn’t stop it.

And when those eyes focus in on him once more, they seem so open, so trusting.

It’s in moments like this, when it becomes so easy for him to almost forget that he doesn’t have a heart.

That it died centuries ago, and ironically enough—it was for her sake.

For just a moment, staring up at him in the dark, Shi Qingxuan thinks she sees those eyes flash with gold, burning down at her with an unnatural glow.

But then she blinks, tears sliding down her face—

And then, his fingers are sliding away, making her whine from the emptiness.

But not for long, before he replaces them with the thing that she really wants, making her arch beautifully underneath him, an unrestrained moan slipping from her throat as he lets it go, gasping.

His hands brace against the mattress on either side of her head as he rocks in.

Deeper, deeper, deeper.

Until she feels pleasantly hollowed out, her arms clinging around his neck, ankles crossing behind his back.

His mouth is against her cheek, not kissing it, but—

Drinking in her tears with satisfaction.

Still, she pleads.

“M…Ming-Xiong…”

There’s a powerful thrust that draws a broken cry from her, arms trembling around his neck.

“K…Kiss me,” she mumbles, the tears flowing faster, but He Xuan isn’t worried. “P-Please?”

She likes it when he makes her cry.

Still—sometimes, he indulges her, kissing slow and deep.

She hugs his neck closer, and he nips at her lips until she smiles, opening further for him, and he asks—

“Still okay?”

Not because he cares, but because it’s something that Ming Yi would do. He’s the sort with a hard exterior, hiding affection underneath.

Even so, that smile widens against his lips, even as her own tremble.

“M-Mm’ okay,” She mumbles, rocking up against him for emphasis, making his own lips turn up at the corners against his will.

His mouth trails back up her cheek.

“Crybaby…” He murmurs, slamming in harder.

Drinking in those tears, as they flow faster.

“M-Mean…!” She cries, whimpering all sorts of things.

That he’s a bully. Relentless. A tormentor of the cruelest kind.

Even as he wrings out climax after climax, not stopping until they start to blend together in one long crest.

But that’s alright, because she loves it when he’s mean, and he loves it when she cries.

She’s passed out against his chest by the end of it, limp, breaths trembling against his throat as He Xuan keep one arm wrapped around her back, staring at the ceiling.

Maybe he overdid it.

That’s entirely possible, but…

‘I’ll deal with you later.’

It seems somewhat likely that statement will be coming back to haunt him sooner rather than later. And if He Xuan is going to have to deal with that, well—

His arm tightens around her back, his expression unreadable.

Shi Qingxuan is loud. Overstimulating at times. But—being around her, it’s enough to keep his mind quiet when he needs it to be.

Which is necessary—because sometimes, it becomes unbearably loud.

Like it is right now.

And by the time it quiets down again—it’ll be too late.

⚠️ NSFW SECTION HAS ENDED ⚠️

Pei Ming could not possibly begin to explain how grateful he is, for the fact that he ascended before he ever had children.

Realistically, he probably did—but he was lucky enough to never find out.

Because dealing with children?

Not his forte.

“Listen,” he wipes a hand down his face.

Normally, he could shrug this sort of thing off with a laugh.

But this is Pei’s thirteenth mission in one month, and he just received some incredibly unpleasant news from the Heavens.

“When I tell you to stay back, you stay back.”

The Martial God of the West stares up at him blankly, clearly not seeing a any problem. “You said to get out of the way, Ming Guang. I think that’s different.”

Pei is smiling, but his eyebrow is twitching consistently. “And did you get out of the way?”

Quan Yizhen blinks. “No.”

Honestly, the worse part is that Quan Yizhen isn’t even a child. He’s just so goddamn eccentric that Pei Ming doesn’t know what else to call him.

He’s tried everything to get the Martial God under control on missions. Threats. Asking nicely. Guilt tripping.

Making promises he doesn’t intend to keep.

Absolutely none of them are effective.

“Look around you,” Pei’s smile is so strained, it looks more like a grimace now as he grabs Quan Yizhen by the front of his robes, “and tell me where we are.”

The younger god obeys in near comical fashion, turning his head and looking around him in a slow, exaggerated fashion, expressionless as he takes in the sights around them, before looking up at Pei Ming and answering promptly:

“Qinghe.”

“Very observant,” Pei hisses.

And the worst part?

Quan Yizhen actually seems a little flattered by the praise, incapable of detecting Pei’s blatant sarcasm. “Thank you.”

Pei wants to kill himself. No. He wants to kill Quan Yizhen, then himself. Murder suicide. That’s the way to go.

“And who’s territory is it?”

“Yours.”

“And who’s mission is this?”

“Yours.”

“And who is the senior god present?”

“You.”

“You understand all of these things.” Pei Ming is normally a fairly easygoing person. Go with the flow. Shi Wudu and Ling Wen hate that about him.

But right now, he’s exhausted. He’s been exhausted for the better part of a decade now, because that’s how long this stint of increasingly difficult missions has been going on.

And Quan Yizhen is possibly the most effective help there is in a fight, but he’s also a liability.

“And have you listened to a single goddamn thing I’ve said this entire mission?”

He has these big, hazel eyes, and they stare up at him with a level of earnestness that borders on stupidity.

“No.”

The mission seemed simple enough, in the beginning—not so out of the ordinary.

There was a savage ghost preying on young women in the area—spiriting them away to the point where not even their corpses or ashes could be traced.

Jun Wu has been concerned about high level ghosts recently, because, for some reason, he thinks Mount Tonglu is going to reopen.

Soon.

And by his logic, sending Pei Ming, the most consistent martial god available, to eliminate the strongest savage ghosts available before it does, is somehow the best means to make sure the next Ghost King to be born isn’t particularly powerful.

Pei doesn’t understand it—because Jun Wu didn’t ask him to look into it when He Xuan was created, or Hua Cheng before him. The only rationale he can discern is that two powerful ghost kings are a pair, but three make a worrisome party that Jun Wu doesn’t want to deal with.

And what’s worse—not every ghost Jun Wu has sent him to eliminate has been violent, or even a threat to humans. In which cases, Pei Ming felt more like a glorified butcher than a protector of mortals.

At no point as Qi Rong’s name come up, despite his destructive nature, and…

With each assignment that gets passed down, Pei Ming becomes more and more wary each time that he might see the name of the savage ghost Ren Song on the mission file.

He relishes in a good fight, and ten years ago—he would have left at a conflict with Hua Cheng.

But now?

The thought exhausts him more than it thrills him.

Still—in this case, the threat turned out to not even be from the ghost. Not in the way they expected.

There’s a local cultivation clan—one who started from a family of butchers, known for using sabers as their weapon of choice

The only problem was—they were using the resentful energy from animals and other forms of beasts to cultivate with said sabers.

And when the cultivator wielding the weapon died, it left that energy with nowhere else to go.

Forming multiple, incredibly violent blade spirits.

Slaying those that currently existed was one thing—one difficult, incredibly violent task—but this was a cultivation clan that had existed for the last century and a half.

That meant hundreds of graves, hundreds of spirits.

In the end, he was able to work with the clan leader to work out a feasible solution—sealing the remaining sabers in stone castles with corpses of their dead counterparts to keep the spirits sealed, but…

Wrangling them all was a bloody process. And a dangerous one.

One that cost many cultivators their lives—and quite frankly, almost severely injured Quan Yizhen several times, because the stupid little shit doesn’t listen—

But, Pei digresses.

And now, they’re standing here, basking in the real tragedy of the situation:

The Ghost.

Initially, the killings were blamed on a local spirit known to hide in the forest, one that everyone thought to be harmless—but, when the violence escalated, well…it was the most obvious candidate.

Simply because it was old. Old enough that the stories traced back centuries.

The stone castle built to house the blade spirits just so happened to be within that very forest—and, in the process—

The cultivators attacked the ghost, who was entirely innocent in the situation, leaving it to slowly disperse, alone.

Like a wounded animal left to die.

The leader of the cultivation clan glances back and forth between the two gods, seeming to think that their disagreement must be coming to an end, bowing to Pei apologetically,

“I should have had better control of my men, General Ming Guang. Deepest apologies.”

Pei lets out a tired sigh.

The Nie Clan is an honest group of cultivators, if not unconventional. Nie Feng, their leader, is no exception.

“They’re cultivators. They attacked a ghost they perceived as a threat. There’s nothing to apologize for,” he mutters, shaking his head.

Still, it’s difficult not to pity the creature.

“…You go,” the god sighs, pushing his bangs back from his forehead. “Take your men and celebrate your victory. We’ll stay report back to the Heavens shortly.”

After a moment the clean leader nods, bowing deeply to show thanks.

Once he leaves, Pei Ming and Quan Yizhen are left alone in the forest, watching the ghost slowly begin to fade.

It’s far more ancient than Pei realized before. Not a matter of centuries, no.

This spirit is older than him. And, Pei suspects—

It could be even older than Jun Wu.

“…What’s your name, friend?” He murmurs, watching with a sympathetic gaze.

The old man shakes his head, his face a gnarled mess of wrinkles, eyes reduced to dark pits, sporting a head of white, scraggly hair.

“My name is Deng Shihong,” he rasps. “And you are not my friend.”

Slowly, his eyes drift over to Quan Yizhen, flashing with something Pei Ming doesn’t quite recognize.

“Young man…” He murmurs, “you’re a warrior, yes?”

The Martial God of the East shrugs with a nod. “Why?”

“…Come,” the ghost murmurs, “I have something for your emperor.”

He lifts one trembling hand to coax the young god forward, fingers gnarled nearly beyond recognition. “He’ll want it, I’m sure.”

Quan Yizhen’s eyebrows raise slightly—but his curiosity has been piqued enough for him to listen, stepping forward.

Deng Shihong smiles.

There’s a flash in his eyes, and in that moment, Pei realizes—

It’s a mistake.

“Quan Yizhen!” He barks, “STAY BACK!”

But, in typical fashion, the little idiot doesn’t listen, leaving Pei Ming with exactly one choice:

Grabbing him by the back of his robes and yanking him away.

But in doing so—

/Thud./

Pei Ming grimaces when there’s a sharp pain in his side, and when he looks down—

He sees the hilt of a dagger sticking out between his ribs.

One with a hilt unlike any he’s seen before. Intricate, with a gilded snake curled around the pommel.

“…Ming Guang,” Deng Shihong smiles, revealing a mouth full of sharpened teeth, “I remember you clearly.”

The pain is noticeable—enough to make him grit his teeth—but when Quan Yizhen tries to rush forward to assist, Pei reaches behind, shoving him back.

“You’ve done enough.”

He snarls the words, turning back to the ghost, who seems pleased.

“I always thought it was fascinating, how a man responsible for so much bloodshed could have such honor…” Deng Shihong smiles. “You didn’t hesitate to throw yourself in front of the blade for that young man.”

Responsible for so much bloodshed.

Pei Ming’s eyes flash slightly from the reaction, and he glares.

“What were you trying to do?”

Rather than answering his question, the ghost shrugs, his form becoming somewhat transparent.

“How many children were buried, because of you?”

Pei Ming’s expression doesn’t change, trained with stoicism, his eyes narrowed—

But there’s a flash of pain there. An old, infected scar being jabbed at viciously.

“I suspect you’re a killer too,” he replies, his voice calm. “You wouldn’t have lasted this long if you weren’t.”

Deng Shihong smiles thinly, his head leaned back against the trunk of the tree behind him, “Yes,” he sighs, “but not of humans. That…honor lies with you, my friend.”

Pei rests his elbows on his knees, knelt before the ghost, watching his face with an eerie sort of stillness.

“I thought you said we weren’t friends.”

The ghost barks out a broken laugh, shaking his head, “No, no…I suppose I did…”

Slowly, his gaze trails down to Pei Ming once more, and he adds—

“…It would have been more poetic if I went for the throat, don’t you think?”

The General’s eyes narrow sharply, then widen with recognition.

“…Is that it, then?” He questions wearily. “You’re from Yushi?”

Deng Shihong shakes his head, the pits of his eyes glittering with amusement. “That was long after my time. But I watched you, Ming Guang.”

The Martial God’s expression finally twists with shame.

“I saw what you did.”

What he did.

He…

“…And what,” Pei mutters, staring him down.

Not the smiling, fun loving, easy going version of himself. Not the non-threatening personality he projects to most.

This is a side of himself he’s only shown to one other person in the last few centuries. Never intentionally, only ever in moments of weakness, aching to be understood.

And he was.

“What were you trying to do? Slay a god on your way out? Make a legacy for yourself that way?”

The ghost shakes his head, his expression one of deep satisfaction. “I already have a legacy, my boy.” He murmurs, nodding towards Pei Ming, but, more specifically—

To the dagger buried between his ribs.

“I only wish…” His voice takes on an echoing quality, fading.

The face that stares back at him now is that of a soldier, worn and battle weary. Haunted.

A last sight befitting a ghost such as him, Deng Shihong thinks, eyes gleaming one final time.

“…I could see the look on Jun Wu’s face, when he sees it…”

And just like that, he’s gone.

“…” Pei Ming rises to his feet, yanking the dagger out with a wince, tucking it into his belt. “Let’s go.”

“…That was my fault,” Quan Yizhen mutters—and for once, he seems to understand the consequences of his own stupidity.

Pei sends him a tired glance, waving him off.

“It was,” he agrees. “But no harm done.”

After all, a wound like this is nothing to him.

And now, all he wants is to get back home. To his liquor, to his bed—and to the person he wants to see in it, but—

He stops, reaching up to touch the corner of his mouth.

When his hand comes away—

There’s blood there, staining his fingertips.

And when Pei Ming looks down at his abdomen, expecting to find his wound healing from the spiritual energy he’s pouring into it—

It’s still bleeding.

“…Ming Guang?”

The general stumbles.

“…The hell?” He mutters, pressing his hand against his side, staunching the bleeding.

It—

It’s not healing.

Suddenly, he finds himself looking down at the weapon at his hip with greater suspicion, his eyes narrowing.

…Just what kind of dagger is that, anyway?

Returning to Puqi Shrine is far simpler than the first leg of their journey. After all—with no further reason to hide his strength, Hua Cheng is perfectly willing to draw an array that takes them back in one jump.

It’s nighttime once again, the crickets chirping outside.

Xie Lian stands before the stone counter on the far wall, carefully chopping up vegetables before sliding them into the pot.

In all honesty, he knows it’s not much of a meal to serve a ghost king, but…

His skills must have improved over the years, at least a little, right?

And even if they haven’t—having an excuse to do something with his hands makes it a little easier to concentrate, which he often finds…

Difficult, when Hua Cheng is around. Which makes sense now, Xie Lian supposes. Ghost Kings must have that effect on most—he’s no exception.

But, rather than sit in comfortable silence—he supposes he has to start this conversation, one way or another.

“…So,” he murmurs, sliding a handful of chopped onions into the pot, “Crimson Rain Sought Flower.”

Hua Cheng leans against the counter beside him, arms crossed.

Xie Lian can feel it now, the weight of the Ghost’s eyes upon his every move. It isn’t unpleasant at all, and he really doesn’t mind, but—

It’s distracting, that’s for certain.

“Taizi dianxia,” He replies easily, and the way he says it…

Xie Lian swallows hard.

“…You’ve never called me by my title before,” he murmurs.

That’s not technically true. But it was a transgression, one that Hua Cheng corrected the moment he could do so without suspicion.

“How do you like it?” The ghost smiles, leaning his elbows back against the counter.

“It…” Xie Lian struggles to find a way to phrase it that doesn’t sound…odd, “…sounds different, coming from you.”

Hua Cheng arches an eyebrow, tilting his head slightly. “Is that so? How?”

“It just sounds…”

The prince finds himself in the rare position where he really, truly wishes he could see Hua Cheng’s face—if only to see his expression.

“…Very respectful.”

Most of the time, when people call him ‘dianxia,’ it sounds…almost mocking, like a joke. From Hua Cheng, though…

It sounds reverential.

And the look on Hua Cheng’s face—the one he wishes he could see—

It’s a smile.

Soft, warm with affection.

“Good,” he murmurs, sounding rather pleased.

And Xie Lian, he…he shakes himself out of it before he can think about it too hard.

“…Anyway,” he mutters, “I’ve been meaning to ask…why did you pretend to be the ghost groom on Mount Yu Jun?”

Hua Cheng’s smile widens now, eyes glittering with amusement, “I never pretended to be the groom,” he replies.

And—

Well. Hold on actually.

Xie Lian stops, sheepish.

Hua Cheng is right about that.

All he did was stand outside of the bridal sedan and offer his hand, Xie Lian was the one who just grabbed it and went along with him willingly.

And proceeded to call him…

Xie Lian stops, remembering now what he said that night.

‘…Hong’er?’

“…I’m sorry for the way I reacted to you,” he mutters, mortified, quickly placing a lid on the pot so he can allow it to simmer. “I…you just…” the prince bites the inside of his cheek, struggling to hide his feelings, “…Reminded me of someone.”

Hua Cheng’s case is heavier than ever now, weighing on Xie Lian in a way that makes him feel…almost stripped bare.

“It didn’t offend me—but can I ask who?”

That question—it couldn’t possibly be more difficult to answer.

But Xie Lian, he…

He tries.

“Someone…” Xie Lian reaches up, touching the ring through the fabric of his robes, clearing his throat as he tries to steady his voice, “Someone no longer living,” he explains, “but…very important to me.”

It’s probably good, in the end, that he can’t see Hua Cheng’s face.

Because then, if he could—he would see that the Ghost King was in pain.

It’s written across his expression—a kind of naked, long borne suffering. A longing that leaves it’s bearer straining from the weight of it.

If Xie Lian saw that, he might think he caused it, and—

He couldn’t. He could never.

There have been so many people in Hua Cheng’s life that have caused him pain. He’s lost count by now, even if most of them have been long since slain.

But Xie Lian has never been one of them. He never could be.

Hua Cheng’s god could never hurt him.

“I’m sorry,” the Ghost King mutters, half under his breath—but still, Xie Lian hears him clearly, looking over at Hua Cheng with confused curiosity.

“What for?”

After a pause, he simply replies—

“…For your loss.”

“…” Xie Lian smiles awkwardly, but his answer doesn’t comfort

“It’s alright, San Lang,” he murmurs, lowering his hand from the chain around his neck. “It was a long time ago.”

Hua Cheng closes his eyes and lets out a sigh, nodding his head with agreement—even if Xie Lian can’t see it.

It was a very, very long time ago. That’s true.

Blissfully unaware of Hua Cheng’s inner turmoil, Xie Lian asks—

“Then…why were you on Mount Yu Jun that night?”

Hua Cheng watches him, like he’s always, always watching him. Evaluating which step is best to take. “There are two options,” he muses.

Now, he pushes off of the counter, moving to stand behind the god, leaning close—until his voice is next to Xie Lian’s ear, murmuring—

“The first being that I came just for you, your highness,” he purrs, watching as goosebumps rise across Xie Lian’s skin, his pupils dilated.

“…Or,” he leans back, throwing his hands up in a neutral gesture, “You could say that I was bored and looking for something to do.”

Xie Lian thinks it over, rubbing his chin.

“I suppose both are equally plausible, but…”

When Xie Lian thinks about everything Hua Cheng has done in the past week, helping out around the shrine, and then everything he did in the Crescent Moon…

“…It does seem like you’ve had a lot of free time,” he muses.

An amused chuckle rings in his ears, making them burn.

“If you say so, dianxia.” He shrugs, glancing over Xie Lian’s face—his gaze lingering on the god’s eyes. “I see you aren’t trying to hide the shackle anymore.”

“…Well,” Xie Lian instinctively turns his face away, self conscious. “Heavenly Law only forbids showing mortals.”

That’s true—though not every god would feel so comfortable exposing an obvious sign of weakness before a Calamity.

“And…” the prince shrugs. “You clearly already know who I am—so there’s not really a point in hiding the fact that I have a shackle, even if it’s…”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, but Hua Cheng frowns, knowing what he means.

“I don’t think it’s shameful at all, dianxia.”

Xie Lian’s lips turn up at the corners, somewhat tired. “That’s kind of you to say, San lang,” he mutters, but says nothing more.

The Ghost King frowns, struggling to hide his own frustrations, then comments—

“But you’re not completely blind, are you?”

That’s different from the way it was before.

Xie Lian tilts his head.

“That’s…a recent development,” he admits.

“The shackle was damaged during my third ascension. Now—I can’t see physical objects, but…” He shrugs, looking around at the sea of crimson all around them. “I can see spiritual power. Auras from Ghosts, Gods, and Cultivators for the most part.”

Hua Cheng considers that.

“And that’s why you can see the butterflies.”

Xie Lian nods with a happy smile, fond as he remembers the sight of them that night, filling the darkness around him like hundreds of little stars. “They’re beautiful, I’m rather fond of them.”

That…makes Hua Cheng smile back.

“I’m glad to hear that. They’re…” He tilts his head to the side, his gaze suddenly far away, “…rather meaningful to me.”

It’s interesting to Xie Lian, how Hua Cheng can so easily go from being such a coy, teasing figure, to moments of such sincerity.

“…They are?” The god questions, “Why?”

His reply is so quiet—it’s not that Xie Lian struggles to hear him, that would be near impossible—

But the softness of his tone gives the prince pause.

“Because they always come back.”

Suddenly, the god is reminded of what Hua Cheng said the night before, just before leaping into the Sinner’s Pit.

‘Don’t worry, gege—I’ll always come back.’

He…?

Hua Cheng makes the choice to change the subject.

“What does my aura look like then, your highness?”

“Ah…” Xie Lian glances around him, thinking it over. “…Well—Crimson, which isn’t a surprise, I suppose—and also…” He struggles for the right way to describe it—one that doesn’t sound rude.

“…Huge.”

Hua Cheng sounds horribly amused.

“Is that so?”

“The biggest I’ve seen,” Xie Lian nods, and Hua Cheng actually has to cover his mouth with his hand to bite back a snort.

“…Well,” he lowers his hand, his voice even, “It’s good to know that it’s proportional.”

It sounds like he’s making a joke—not at Xie Lian’s expense, but…

Xie Lian doesn’t really get it, either.

“…But I don’t want to be overbearing,” the ghost muses, tapping his chin thoughtfully—and Xie Lian is quick to correct him.

“It’s not at all, really!”

“But is this better?”

When the prince looks up, his breath catches.

Those trained in cultivation—or high level ghosts—have some amount of control over their spiritual power, controlling the flow and direction as it moves through their golden cores, but—

Hua Cheng’s ability to mold it is unlike anything he’s ever seen.

What he’s done now, essentially, is taken all of that spiritual power, flooding Xie Lian’s frame of vision, and shrunk it down to the surface of his skin—allowing the god to see the shape of his form.

It’s more of a rough outline rather than actually seeing what he looks like.

Spiritual energy is a form of light, in a sense—and without shadow, there’s little available to create any depth to what Xie Lian can see.

“Dianxia?”

“Ah…” Xie Lian’s eyes are so wide, staring at him now, trying to take in everything that he can. “It’s…”

He clears his throat, trying not to sound as affected as he feels, he—

Xie Lian has been on his own for such a long time now, and he’s become accustomed to people thinking less of him, because of his impairment.

And the prince isn’t proud, not anymore, but…

He doesn’t to be pitied.

“It’s not…completely clear, but…that’s amazing,” he admits, his voice a little weak. “Thank you, San Lang.”

The Ghost King tilts his head, “Is the shape too loose?”

“No, no!” Xie Lian assures him, holding up his hands with a nervous laugh.

“I just—can’t see natural shadows, that’s all—which I suppose isn’t something you’d really think about, unless you couldn’t see, and—well—”

Oh heavens, now he’s rambling.

“—for most, being blind is sort of an all or nothing scenario, so I’m lucky that I can see you at all!”

Then he stops, realizing how that sounded, and—what’s wrong with him? Why is he being like this?

“And just—anything in general. Like—other auras. And your butterflies! I’m…ah,” he laughs again, ears burning, “very blessed, honestly!”

He hears an amused snort, burning hotter.

“I think I understand what you mean.”

Good, because Xie Lian has no clue.

“How’s this?”

Xie Lian brings up his gaze once more, eyes widening with shock as he watches Hua Cheng, essentially…

Use his spiritual energy to paint a living statue.

He can’t change the color of his spiritual energy, but he can change it’s concentration across his skin, creating varying areas of brightness, and it’s not the same as seeing him, but…

Xie Lian can see where his nose is. His mouth. Not individual locks of hair, but the shape.

And it’s the closest he’s come to seeing someone’s face, since…well…

Come to think of it—the last face he ever saw must have been Jun Wu’s, back in Lang’er bay, just before he put the shackles back on.

And now, come to think of it…

The colors of Hua Cheng’s aura—

They remind him of the sunset from that day. The last sight he ever saw.

The thought of that—it makes him smile, even if the expression is a little bit shaky on his lips.

“That’s amazing, San Lang—really—it’s…” He shakes his head.

“Thank you.”

Now, he can vaguely see the curve of a smile on the Ghost’s face.

It’s not something he can do all the time, not with the amount of focus to detail that’s required, but—

It’s a beautiful gift, and Xie Lian is grateful for it.

“You are very welcome.”

Xie Lian finds himself struggling to look away now, drinking in the sight of another person for the first time in so long—but finally, he manages to mutter—

“You’re so different from what the legends say.”

Hua Cheng raises an eyebrow, intrigued.

“Really? Then how did you guess that it was me?”

Well. He wasn’t trying particularly hard to hide it. If anything, Xie Lian thinks the guise of approaching him as a slightly ill behaved teenager was more about putting the god at ease than actual stealth.

And it worked.

“…Well, you were flawless,” Xie Lian shrugs. “No matter how much I tested you—so, you either had to be a human, or a Calamity. But you were also highly intelligent, powerful, and fearless in battle—by the time I saw your aura again in the Sinner’s Pit…”

It was pretty obvious who he was.

“Who else could you have been, but Crimson Rain Sought Flower? That only confirmed it.”

Hua Cheng crosses his arms once more, watching the god fondly. “Can I take that as a compliment?”

Xie Lian smiles warmly, “Isn’t it a compliment already?”

Before the ghost king can say more, there’s a rattle against the floor, and when he looks down—Xie Lian can see the faint purple outline of Banyue’s jar rolling across the floor, gently thudding against the door.

“…You want to go outside?” He questions softly. “Alright.”

He opens the door for her, watching as the little clay pot rolls over to settle down on the porch, where the red wooden pillars that make up the overhang lead to a small drop off made from stacked stones.

Xie Lian walks over, sitting down beside her with his knees pulled up, arms wrapped around them.

“…General Hua?” Banyue murmurs, her voice taking on a slightly echoing quality from inside the jar.

“Hmm?”

Banyue appears now, mimicking his pose as she looks up at the sky.

“…Do you know what’s going to happen to Pei Xiu?” She murmurs, her voice strained with concern.

“I don’t know,” Xie Lian replies slowly.

In truth—he does.

Exile is the punishment of choice for such serious wrongdoings.

“…But he will have to be punished, at the very least.”

Banyue frowns, her arms tightening around herself.

“…He isn’t that bad, you know,” she mutters, shaking her head. “Ke Mo always said that he was using me, or manipulating me, but…”

She says the next words with no small amount of shame:

“I was the one who chose to do it.”

Of course—she means opening the city gates, and Xie Lian…

Even if he couldn’t understand that choice—and certainly, he does understand it—he wouldn’t be in a position to judge it.

He reaches over, patting the lid of the pot gently. “It’s alright, little one,” he murmurs.

Hua Cheng leans against the doorframe of the shrine, arms crossed over his chest as he watches the two—mainly Banyue—his expression unreadable.

“It’s in the past now,” Xie Lian continues. “You can’t hold onto these things forever.”

He knows that better than anyone.

“…I’m sorry, General Hua,” she mutters again, pressing her face into her knees, her eyes saddened, and Xie Lian…

He sighs, shaking his head. “Banyue…why do you keep on apologizing to me?”

She’s quiet. Banyue can’t cry now, without a physical form—but she would if she could.

“…I want to save the world,” she mutters, her eyes peering up, the purples around her rises so vivid in the dark.

Xie Lian stares blankly in her direction, tilting his head. “…What?”

“That’s what you used to say,” she explains, and Xie Lian gawks, completely floored.

“…I did?” He mutters, disbelieving.

How—how could he have ever said something like that?

Him, save the world?

He could barely save one city, and he got beaten half to hell in the process, no, he—he can’t.

Banyue nods rather seriously. “You said that was your dream.”

Maybe when he was a teenager, sure, but…

Oh, that’s—

Xie Lian winces, pressing his face into his hands.

That’s embarrassing, particularly when he knows that Hua Cheng is listening to their conversation.

“…And Hua Cheng Laoshi…” Banyue shrinks with guilt. “I’m sorry.”

The Ghost King doesn’t speak when she looks up at him, simply raising an eyebrow from where he leans against the doorframe to the shrine, his arms crossed over his chest.

“…You taught me magic to protect myself,” Banyue mutters, shaking her head. “Not to hurt people.”

Her eyes drift back out over the night, watching the fireflies drifting lazily through the air, listening to the sounds of the crickets.

It’s peaceful here. But Banyue—she feels like she doesn’t deserve to Rest In Peace.

“I tried,” she mutters, pressing her face into her knees.

“I tried so hard to save the people of Yong’an, but I…” her voice wavers, and her shoulders tremble. “I ended up destroying the Crescent Moon kingdom.”

Xie Lian’s chest aches, and he remembers a time when he was just like her.

So young, so hurt, and so disappointed in himself.

Crying in his mothers arms, whispering the same words—

‘I tried.’

‘I tried so hard.’

“I…know you don’t think much of Ke Mo either,” Banyue mutters, and Xie Lian can’t hep but grit his teeth in response, remembering what that man did. “But before…he was good to me.”

Xie Lian didn’t admit it back in the sinner’s pit—but he’s far more of the same mind with San Lang. He doubts Ke Mo’s loyalty was to Banyue as a human being, but to her usefulness as a weapon.

“The soldiers respected me, and I…”

Banyue grimaces.

“They weren’t evil, General.”

Xie Lian believes that much. The foot soldiers of war rarely ever are. They’re usually young men. Sons and brothers and school boys, marching to death for reasons they can’t possibly understand before their time comes.

“But I…I got them killed…and I couldn’t even free them.”

Banyue’s fingers tremble where they grip her shins, her lips pressed together tightly.

“Geneural Hua…I know I’ve made mistakes, but…where did I go wrong?” She whispers. “What should I do?”

There was a time in his life when Xie Lian probably would have given some arrogant, well intentioned speech about believing in herself. In always doing what she believed was right, even if it was hard.

But now—now, Xie Lian only sighs, resting his hand on top of the jar.

“I’m sorry, little one,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “I didn’t know the answer back then—and I still don’t.”

The ghost hangs her head, biting her lip to the point where, if she had physical form—it would bleed from it.

“…What I doing for the last two hundred years?” She mutters, her voice filled with shame. “Such a failure…”

Xie Lian stares into the darkness ahead contemplatively, his expression unreadable.

Then what was he doing for the last eight centuries?

He’s a far greater failure.

Finally, Hua Cheng speaks up from his perch in the corner, arms still crossed as he observes the two.

“I didn’t teach you magic for self defense, Banyue.” He murmurs, taking on a different tone now, than the one he’s used with Xie Lian.

There’s something stern about him now.

It makes him seem older—less like the young man he posed as for Xie Lian’s benefit, and more like the Ghost King he actually is.

And it’s a keen reminder—he must actually be close to Xie Lian’s own age.

The thought makes his stomach flip inexplicably.

“I gave you the freedom to make your own choices.” Hua Cheng concludes, watching her with an evaluating gaze. “You said just now that opening the gates was your choice, and yours alone. Remaining in the Crescent Moon Kingdom—that was your own choice as well.”

Banyue hangs her head even lower. “They were mistakes, Hua Cheng Laoshi.”

“Mistakes are the result of free will.” The Ghost King replies calmly. His tone almost sounds flat, unfeeling—but Xie Lian doesn’t think that it actually is.

It’s more like…the ‘tough love’ approach.

“Be grateful that you had the opportunity to learn from them, and move on. But don’t apologize to me.”

Hua Cheng has too many mistakes of his own, he doesn’t have time to bear someone else’s remorse.

With that, he turns around to walk inside, giving her space—and Xie Lian quickly makes the decision to follow, rising to his feet, giving the younger ghost a gentle kiss on top of the head before leaving her with her thoughts.

The door shuts, and Xie Lian sighs.

“…That was good advice,” he mutters, shaking his head. “I wish I…”

He almost says that he wishes he could follow it—then realizes how silly that must seem.

“…Thank you,” he glances up with a somewhat pained smile. “For teaching her, I mean.”

“Even with how it turned out?”

Xie Lian thinks about it for a moment—and then he nods, “Because if you hadn’t, she probably…”

She probably wouldn’t have survived very long, and certainly couldn’t have risen as a powerful ghost.

It’s such a selfish way of thinking, but…

If Xie Lian could have had the first person he lost come back to him as a ghost, he would have. He can’t say he’s not grateful to at least have her.

“I never would have gotten the chance to see her again,” Xie Lian shrugs, swallowing hard. “So, thank you.”

The Ghost King stares at him, long and hard, and Xie Lian isn’t sure if he’s not going to answer, or if he just doesn’t know what to say, so he asks—

“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” he mutters. “It was pretty obvious that Pei Junior was trying to help her, but…”

Xie Lian frowns, pondering the matter. “Why not just destroy the ghosts trapped in the pit himself, if that was the trouble?”

After all—it would have ended so much unnecessary suffering and death.

“Because he was using a clone,” Hua Cheng replies with ease.

It’s almost startling at times, the way he seems almost omniscient. Xie Lian supposes it makes sense, given what he is, but still—

Sometimes, it’s like talking to a walking dictionary.

“His spiritual power was greatly reduced. He couldn’t have dispersed all of the spirits.”

Hua Cheng watches as Xie Lian goes to his altar, feeling for some of the flowers that were left earlier that day as an offering, arranging them more delicately.

Of course, as a prince, he was trained in many refined arts.

Dancing, singing, calligraphy—and floral arrangements.

Naturally, he can maneuver the flowers into a more appealing shape just by feeling the petals—and Hua Cheng watches him, thoughtful.

“Just feeding humans to the creatures was probably the fastest way to appease them,” the ghost concludes, plucking one blossom from the bouquet.

He twirls it between his fingers for a moment, “After all, for a Heavenly Official—human lives are like that of ants.”

Xie Lian sighs, but doesn’t protest. He doesn’t necessarily agree that all Heavenly Officials are like that, but some of them are, and…

Obviously, someone from the ghost realm would have a different perspective—but that doesn’t mean Hua Cheng’s experiences are less valid.

Particularly when you consider the fact that he slaughtered 33 Heavenly Officials—and after spending time with him…

Hua Cheng had a reason.

Xie Lian has no idea what that reason could have been—but he’s spent enough time with the man to understand that he’s not violent without provocation.

Sure, maybe he doesn’t need /much/ provocation—but still.

“I suppose—”

Then, the ghost does something that makes him pause.

He reaches out with little warning, on a whim, really, no—

An impulse. And he…

Tucks that flower behind Xie Lian’s ear, pushing some of his hair back with it before pulling his hand back, watching the god closely.

Xie Lian’s expression is frozen, difficult to read.

Remember.

That’s what Hua Cheng is thinking, his gaze burning into the curve of Xie Lian’s cheek, his posture relaxed, but everything inside of him is tense.

He can’t say his own name. Can’t answer when Xie Lian calls him.

Don’t you remember?

And he can tell from the twist of Xie Lian’s mouth—he does.

Remembers the day he woke up with a flower tucked behind his ear. Remembers the Ghost he snapped at over it, ungrateful.

‘It was the day I kissed you.’

It was the only kiss that Xie Lian chose. The only one he wanted.

And Wu Ming was so gentle. He—

He was the last person that was so gentle with Xie Lian. The last person who—

Hua Cheng watches his god’s lips tremble, and after letting out a shaky breath, he—

“Your clone,” Xie Lian mumbles, his voice small, “…how is it so powerful, then?”

There’s a pause, and—

Hua Cheng closes his eyes briefly, forcing his chest to relax, unwinding the knot in his stomach.

It’s alright. He—

This isn’t about him, and it’s alright.

Slowly, he opens his eyes—and a sly, cocky smile spreads across his face.

“This is my real body.”

“…Really?” Xie Lian snaps out of it now, eyes wide as he looks him over curiously, taking in the form that Hua Cheng is still projecting for him.

“Authentic,” Hua Cheng agrees, that smile turning slightly lopsided with affection as he watches that intelligent curiousness.

And he’s not the only one that’s prone to being impulsive, not between the two of them.

Xie Lian finds himself reaching up without thinking, both palms pressed against the Ghost King’s cheeks—just because he wants to see what a Calamity’s skin must feel like, and—

He realizes three things very quickly.

First—his skin is cool. Not unpleasantly so—but noticeable.

Second, it’s perfectly smooth, not a scar or blemish in sight.

And third—he has a dimple in the right corner of his mouth.

They stare at one another, eyes wide.

Hua Cheng, from the silent delight of the fact that his god would deign to touch him so easily, and—

Xie Lian, from mortification that he /dared/ to touch Hua Cheng so easily. He—He was just curious, he hadn’t even been thinking.

And the ghost’s cheeks might be pleasantly cool, but Xie Lian’s are on fire, burning an alluring shade of pink that Hua Cheng can’t seem to take his eyes off of.

He yanks his hands away quickly, hiding them behind his back, rocking on his heels awkwardly.

“…Nice,” he croaks.

Hua Cheng’s eyes flash slightly with annoyance, not necessarily with Xie Lian, never him, but…

It’s not the word he wanted to hear.

Still, he smirks, taking on a teasing tone. “Oh?” He muses, leaning closer. “This skin looks nice to you?”

Xie Lian isn’t used to the sensation of eye contact anymore, even if he can’t see Hua Cheng’s clearly, he—

He breaks it, clearing his throat. “…Yeah…” He mumbles, then realizes— “If that’s a skin, then…” He looks over the tall, broad form before him.

“…This isn’t actually what you look like?”

“No,” Hua Cheng admits, shaking his head. “Not precisely.”

“Then…” Xie Lian tilts his chin back up, even if his eyes are still averted, “…could I take a peek at the real one?”

The pause is long, and a little…tense.

“Ah…it’s not that serious,” Xie Lian smiles awkwardly, taking another step back, “don’t worry about it—”

And then, a scent tickles his nose—burnt soup.

Oh, he forgot!

He spins around, going to see if it’s salvageable, and…

It’s hard as a rock against the pan, smoldering.

So much for improvement.

“…I can make another—?”

“It’s alright,” Hua Cheng assures him. It’s already late, after all. “I’m not particularly hungry.”

They make ready for bed, and when Xie Lian is combing his hair, Hua Cheng offers him a small bundle to use as a pillow.

“Oh,” the god takes it with a smile, “thank you, San Lang.”

It’s only when he lays down, his cheek pressed against it that he realizes—

It smells like the forest. Like rain. It’s—

It’s San Lang’s outer robe.

Xie Lian’s cheeks heat up slightly as he curls on his side.

He can’t remember the last time he blushed this much, for this long—all in the span of one evening. And honestly—

Xie Lian doesn’t think it’s ever happened.

He tries to sleep, to will his mind to just stop, but…

His eyes blink open, and his fingers twitch restlessly.

“…San Lang?” He whispers into the dark, “are you awake?”

There’s a soft chuckle in response, and Xie Lian is a little sheepish, knowing he sounds like a child sleeping over at a friend’s house.

“Yes, dianxia,” the Ghost King replies. “I’m awake.”

“…”

The prince rolls over onto his stomach, fiddling with his fingers, looking to see if Hua Cheng is still projecting his aura across his skin, and…

He is, kicked back and relaxed, one leg pulled up and slightly bent, his arms folded behind his head.

He’s so…

“I’ve been wondering,” Xie Lian mumbles, eyelashes brushing against his cheeks as he speaks.

Hua Cheng has counted each of them a hundred time, long, thick, and dark.

“Don’t you have to report back to the Ghost Realm at some point?” He questions. “Won’t you get in trouble?”

The younger man cracks a lopsided grin, raising an eyebrow, “Report to who, exactly?”

Xie Lian pauses, thinking—

“I’m the strongest there is.” Hua Cheng reminds him—cocky as ever, but gentle in his casual arrogance.

The prince nods, his stomach doing a small backflip.

He certainly is. What he did in the Crescent Moon Kingdom—Xie Lian doubts that required even the smallest effort with him.

Hua Cheng enjoyed himself, but he toyed with Pei Xiu, like a cat batting a mouse between it’s paws.

Xie Lian hopes, that someday…

He might get to see what it looks like, to see San Lang go all out.

Just imagining what such a battle might look like sends a thrilled shiver down his spine.

“Besides,” the Ghost King continues, taking Xie Lian out of his day dreaming, “ghosts are rather independent creatures.”

“…Oh?” Xie Lian mumbles, his nose tickling against Hua Cheng’s robe, feet kicking slightly behind him, “I always assumed the structure would be parallel to the Heavenly Court.”

“I suppose it could be, if that was what I wanted,” Hua Cheng shrugs. “But that’s not my philosophy.”

The thought of that gives Xie Lian pause, because…he never considered the idea that such things were a matter of choice.

After all—the Heavens function the same way that they always have, even in the dynasties that predated Jun Wu, as the emperor has explained before.

Is he just a traditionalist? Xie Lian—he doesn’t think so.

After all, Jun Wu always seemed so remorseful about enforcing the rules when it came to him. Like it pained the emperor to do so. Xie Lian doesn’t think he would have done that if he had a choice.

“Then…what is your philosophy?” He questions.

Hua Cheng shrugs, fiddling with one lock of hair, rolling something braided into it between his fingertips.

“Free will,” he replies.

Xie Lian can’t help but smile.

Right—like what he was saying to Banyue, before.

“…Then have you met the other Ghost Kings?” He muses, curious. His feet are still kicking in the air slightly as he speaks, the hem of his trousers slipping down slightly, bunching at mid calf.

It reveals the shape of his ankles. Slender, surprisingly delicate, and…

That cursed shackle, the one he tried to hide from Hua Cheng the first night he slept here, is on display.

The Ghost King loathes the reminder of his god’s punishment, but reluctantly appreciates the shape of his legs, nonetheless.

Then, averts his gaze to the ceiling respectfully when he catches himself doing so.

“What about the green ghost, Qi Rong?” Xie Lian continues. “Have you met him?”

“…That tasteless piece of shit?” Hua Cheng mutters.

It’s the first time Xie Lian can remember hearing him swear.

“I’ll drop in and visit him every now and again, but he usually runs away as soon as I greet him,” the Ghost King drawls. “Such a shame.”

“…What sort of greeting is it to make him run?”

Now, his eyes lower back down to meet Xie Lian’s, his smile turning impish.

“The same kind that earned me the name Crimson Rain Sought Flower,” he replies easily.

“…” Xie Lian props himself up on his elbows, back curving slightly. “Is there bad blood between the two of you”

‘Oh, you have no idea.’

“He’s an eye sore and an embarrassment.”

Hua Cheng shrugs. “Black Water feels the same way.”

“…Black Water Sinking Ships,” Xie Lian recalls. “Are you two friends?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, but Xie Lian doesn’t interpret this silence as a refusal to answer. He’s just…thinking very carefully.

The god waits.

“…We know one another very well,” Hua Cheng finally replies, choosing his words carefully. “And he’s my only peer.”

“He’s equal to you in strength, then?” Xie Lian’s eyebrow arches slightly, and the ghost shakes his head.

“Nine times out of ten? I’m significantly stronger.”

“…And the one time out of ten?” The prince is curious—after all, there are always exceptions.

“In his lair,” Hua Cheng explains with a shrug. “Any ghost is at their strongest within their own territory.”

Even Jun Wu wouldn’t dare fight Hua Cheng in Ghost City, for instance.

“And any other ghost, well…” the Ghost King shrugs. “They don’t have the right to speak to me unless I allow it.”

Xie Lian smiles faintly. “I see,” he murmurs, rolling onto his back.

He’s certainly cocky, but…not in an abrasive way.

“By the way,” Hua Cheng murmurs.

“That was a nice line.”

Xie Lian blinks slowly, his expression a mask of confusion. “What line?”

The young man grins, a sharpened canines glinting.

“‘I want to save the world,’” he replies.

“…” Xie Lian yanks his robes over his face with an embarrassed whine. “San Lang!”

The Ghost King rolls onto his side, propping his chin up on his hand so he can watch him, chuckling with fond amusement.

“What? Is there something wrong with it?”

Xie Lian’s voice is muffled under the robe, slightly high pitched with sheepishness. “It’s so silly…”

One lock of the princes hair is peeking out from underneath his robes, strewn across the bed—and Hua Cheng is just bold enough to twirl it between his fingers, “The fact that you dared to say it out loud means that you were willing to try,” the ghost murmurs.

“Of course I admire that.”

It doesn’t make Xie Lian feel any less silly, but…it’s very kind of the ghost to say, and so the prince peeks his face out from under the robe, however hesitantly.

“…I suppose I said sillier things when I was young,” he mutters, relenting.

Hua Cheng’s eyes never leave him. As if he would ever want to look away. “Like what?”

“Well…” Xie Lian trails off.

He almost never talks about it. Not anymore.

He’s told little stories here and there, vague on the details, but…

He trusts San Lang.

In a way that a person trusts their instincts. Less of a choice, and more of something that just comes naturally.

“…After my first ascension,” he murmurs, “I met a young boy. And he—he was just about as lonely and miserable as a human could be,” the god recalls.

“San Lang, he—he was so young, and he was saying that he wanted to die. That the world was so cruel that he wanted to destroy it, and then kill himself.”

And Xie Lian’s life—it was so beautiful back then. He couldn’t understand how someone so young could be so broken.

Because the world hadn’t been cruel to him yet. Because he hadn’t known what it was like, by then, to be utterly alone.

“…He asked me why he was still alive,” Xie Lian murmurs. “And if there was any meaning to life. And do you know how I responded?”

Hua Cheng’s gaze is distant, but when he replies—his tone is filled with a sort of gentleness that has only ever had one witness.

“How did you respond?”

“…I said, ‘If you can’t find a meaning in life,’” Xie Lian repeats, biting his lip, “‘then allow me to be that meaning.’”

Just saying it out loud now makes him feel so arrogant.

“I told him to live for me. To use me as his reason to go on.”

The god falls silent after that, and after a moment, Hua Cheng probes.

“And what did the boy do?”

Xie Lian’s heart aches with bittersweet adoration.

“Oh, he did…” Xie Lian stops, composing himself.

He can’t cry these days, even when he knows he needs to.

Unless it’s about Hong’er.

“He did exactly what I asked, San Lang, he—” Xie Lian swallows thickly. “He completely devoted himself to me for the rest of his life.”

But he deserved so much more.

“…and his reward,” Xie Lian mutters, clearing his throat, “was getting murdered trying to protect me. So—I couldn’t say anything like that now. I’m not…”

He huffs out a long sigh.

“I’m not worth it.”

He just deserves to be—

“I disagree.”

Xie Lian glances up, startled, and Hua Cheng averts his gaze, looking up at the ceiling.

“You just told me he followed you until the end of his life. That means—until the moment he passed, the boy’s life had meaning. More than it did before.” The Ghost King reminds him.

“You gave that to him. That’s worth more than you could ever know.”

But was it a fair trade? Xie Lian still couldn’t tell you that. Every second of every day, he struggles with it.

And yet still, he…

“…Thank you, San Lang,” he murmurs. “That means…a lot to me.”

The Ghost King watches him, allowing the lock of hair he was fiddling with before to slip through his fingers. “I meant it.”

Xie Lian knows—it’s not something a person would lie about.

“I don’t think I could say that again now, though.” The god admits, swallowing hard.

“I only said it back then because I…” He presses his lips together tightly, and his voice gets so small, “…I really thought I could do anything I set my mind to.”

Little does he know, the person Xie Lian is speaking to now is the only one who still believes that he can.

Hua Cheng opens his mouth to reply, then stops when he hears a voice, entering a private communication array.

‘Hua Chengzhu.’

His eyes flash with irritation at the interruption, but his expression doesn’t change.

‘Not now.’

Normally, he never has to ask Shuo twice.

‘I need to know where Blackwater is, he isn’t answering in his array.’

Hua Cheng fights the urge to allow his eyebrow to twitch, and he simply replies—

‘In the Heavenly Capital, most likely. I’ll deal with him tomorrow.’

‘But—!’

‘Unless someone is about to disperse you, don’t contact me again until tomorrow morning.’ The Ghost King replies flatly.

After a few beats of silence, he returns his full attention to his god once more.

“It might have been a foolish thing that you said when you were young,” he murmurs, watching Xie Lian nod with agreement.

“…But it was brave.”

The prince pauses, seeming genuinely surprised that anyone would say that but…

He smiles, nonetheless.

Still, Hua Cheng feels like he has to ask—

“Now that you’ve poured your heart out to me—don’t you want to know what my intentions are?”

Xie Lian considers it, tapping his thumb against his chin—and Hua Cheng silently hopes that he’ll insist, but—

“I don’t think I need to.”

Hua Cheng bites back the urge to scold him, knowing how odd that would seem, but—

He’s too trusting.

And that’s alright for now, because Hua Cheng knows he would die before he harms his love—but the rest of the world isn’t so well intentioned.

“If you want to tell me, you will,” Xie Lian shrugs. “And even if I decided I didn’t like the answer, and I drove you away—what could stop you from coming back with a different face? I’m sure you’re clever enough to fool me a few more times.”

Hua Cheng doesn’t feel particularly guilty, because he isn’t keeping information from Xie Lian by choice, but…

Technically, he’s already done what Xie Lian is saying—and despite hinting, the god has no idea.

“…And what if my true form is hideous?” He questions softly.

Xie Lian smiles, in spite of himself—remembering the last time he was here, in this very shrine, and someone he cared about said the words—

‘I’m not beautiful.’

And he was such a little liar.

“It isn’t.”

Hua Cheng raises an eyebrow. “How could you know that?”

Xie Lian shrugs, “I just have a feeling.”

And he suspects the form that held him in the Sinner’s Pit might have been the real one. Xie Lian didn’t get to see it, or feel very much, but…

He very much doubts that it’s ‘hideous.’

“I wouldn’t be so sure…”

Hua Cheng reaches over, allowing one fingertip to shift into a long, menacing claw before teasing it lightly over Xie Lian’s knuckles, watching as the god shivers, but doesn’t flinch away.

“It could be quite monstrous.”

Xie Lian very much doubts that, but even so…

Claws are a rather useful feature to have. Practically speaking. What’s so wrong with that?

“…Even if you were,” Xie Lian shrugs, turning his head to look over Hua Cheng’s aura, “we’re friends, aren’t we? So, we should be genuine with one another. I promise I won’t—”

He stops, then—noticing that the Ghost King’s shoulders have begun to shake.

…Was it because Xie Lian showed so much trust in him? Did that make him emotional, or—?

Then, he hears a soft chuckle, and his lips turn into a slight frown.

“What’s so funny, San Lang?”

Of course, it’s just—

‘Friends should be genuine with one another.’

Xie Lian couldn’t know, because Hua Cheng can’t tell him, but…

He literally cannot be genuine with the man, and it’s so—

A full blown laugh slips out of him, and Xie Lian huffs, giving his shoulder a light shove.

“San Lang!” He cries out, his face turning pink all over again, “Why are you laughing so much? Did I say something wrong?”

“N-No,” The Ghost King snickers, covering his mouth.

“…” Xie Lian frowns. Honestly, with the way his lower lip juts out, it’s more like a pout, and Hua Cheng, even in his laughter, finds his gaze narrowing in on that mouth longingly.

The prince pulls his hand back, huffing. “You’re so insincere!”

He starts to pull his hand back, but before he can—Xie Lian feels long, slightly cool fingers enveloping his wrist, holding firm before tugging him forward, and—

When Hua Cheng presses Xie Lian’s palm over his chest, the prince bites back a gasp, eyes widening sharply.

There’s a sharp contrast now, between the heart underneath his palm—one that no longer beats—and his own, pounding unsteadily against his ribs.

He’s firm under Xie Lian’s palm, the cotton of his undershirt smooth to the touch. He—

Xie Lian hasn’t…

It’s obvious, that most people cannot touch a prince. Xie Lian was treasured as a child and a young man—carefully protected. And as a god, he cultivated in such a way that mandated keeping firm physical boundaries.

But what most people don’t consider about being a prince, is…

You learn not to touch anyone. Ever.

Xie Lian hugged his parents, but rarely—and only in moments of distress. He used to be somewhat closer with Hong’er, because…

Because he was so new to being in the dark, and Hong’er made touch into something beautiful. A comfort.

And then, Bai Wuxiang…

He made it into something that petrified him.

But nothing ever felt so violating as that day by the river, when he wore Feng Xin’s face. Xie Lian knows, it’s unreasonable to still feel so…hollowed out by what happened. To still hurt, when he remembers.

The last person he allowed to touch him casually as Wu Ming. Since then, in the last eight hundred years…

Nearly every touch Xie Lian has experienced has been that of violence. There were occasional exceptions, but…

This feels different. It feels…

Personal, somehow.

Hua Cheng touches him gently, but firmly. In a way that isn’t terrifying, but…grounding.

His fingers are long enough to overlap where they wrap around him, thumb pressed against the inside of his wrist—where he must feel Xie Lian’s pulse throbbing.

A hummingbird heartbeat.

And when he speaks again, initially—he leaves the god speechless.

“I swear,” he murmurs, his voice low, resounding, like he’s taking an oath of the most serious kind, “That on heaven and earth, you won’t find someone more sincere than me.”

Oh.

/Thump./

Xie Lian…

/Thump./

He can hear blood rushing in his ears. And his heart—

/Thump./

Xie Lian can’t remember the last time it pounded like this.

And he’s not completely oblivious, he—he can tell that there’s an underlying meaning to Hua Cheng’s words.

Even if he can’t understand that meaning—he knows it’s there.

And he’s—

Xie Lian shrinks his arm back, swallowing hard—and Hua Cheng lets him, Xie Lian’s wrist slipping out from between his fingers.

He’s overwhelmed.

“I—we—”

Xie Lian rolls over onto his side, facing away from him, still pressing the wrist Hua Cheng was holding to his chest rather tightly.

“It’s already late,” he mutters, his cheek pressed against Hua Cheng’s outer robe. “We should try to sleep.”

The Ghost King doesn’t protest.

Instead, he just watches the curve of Xie Lian’s shoulders as he starts to relax, his breathing slowing down. The way his hair fans out all around him, completely loose.

His fingers seek out one strand again, and this time…Hua Cheng lifts it to his lips, closing his eyes.

“Next time,” he murmurs, “when we see each other again—I’ll meet you in my true form.”

Xie Lian’s head moves slightly in response—and while he’s likely half asleep…

Hua Cheng is fairly sure that the god heard him.

And not much longer after that, he completely drifts off.

Hua Cheng has never been under the impression that he was a good person. He’s said that many times before.

He was a selfish child. A selfish teenager, and now…

When his body flares with warmth, he knows Xie Lian will unconsciously press back against him, leaning close.

Allowing Hua Cheng to lean his chin against his god’s shoulder, one arm draped over him. Not daring to hold him close, but aching from the satisfaction having him near.

He’s a selfish man.

A low sigh slips out of him, his cheek pressed against Xie Lian’s hair.

He mouths the words, but he doesn’t put any air behind them.

They’re always there. Lurking behind every action, every touch, every word he speaks, slipping between the syllables.

They rattle against the inside of his teeth, begging for release, but he doesn’t have the right to say them.

‘I love you.’

Those are Hong-er’s words, not his. They—

They wouldn’t hold the same meaning, hearing them from Hua Cheng. And at first, he thought he might…

When he gave Xie Lian that flower, he thought—at the very least—he might be able to get close to the god by getting him to realize that he was Wu Ming.

The Crown Prince trusted Wu Ming. Cared for him. Hua Cheng felt that.

But then, he saw the look on Xie Lian’s face.

And it was in that moment, that Hua Cheng realized—

Wu Ming is a painful memory for him. A reminder of a time that he clearly regrets, and…

He squeezes his eyes shut now, biting his lip until one of his sharpened canines breaks skin, blood beading up.

This isn’t about him.

‘If your beloved knew that they were the reason you haven’t moved on…it might cause them pain.’

It’s never been about him.

‘Then I just won’t let them find out.’

As badly as Hua Cheng wants to be recognized, it wasn’t Wu Ming that Xie Lian asked for that night.

It was Hong’er.

He—

There’s a voice in his mind again, in spite of his orders, speaking into their private array. He’s irritated by the presence, ready to snap, but…

‘G-gege…’

When he hears Ren Song’s voice, his attention sharpens.

Trembling—and horribly frightened.

Hua Cheng’s eyes snap open, burning in the dark as he whips his gaze towards the door, pupils narrowing into cat-like slits.

‘Shuo?’

‘I…’

The ghost’s voice breaks, and Hua Cheng can’t decide what they’re frightened of—

An enemy, or Hua Cheng.

‘I…m-messed up…’

Hua Cheng listens silently as they stumble through their explanation, eyes flickering about the room as he takes it in—and when Shuo is finished—

The Ghost King is furious.

‘I…’

‘Come home.’ He speaks into the array firmly. ‘Now.’

‘Gege, he—’

‘Now. I’ll be there soon.’

He doesn’t dare sever the connection, not until he knows the ghost has made it back to the city safely—but when he listens, he can hear Ren Song using distance shortening magic—

They’ll be safe. For now.

He sits up slowly, looking down at Xie Lian’s sleeping form, remorseful.

“…I’ll see you soon,” he murmurs, reaching town to tuck some of the god’s hair behind his ear.

The flower is still there.

His fingers trail down to the god’s neck, finding the chain there—gently pulling until a silver ring slips from the front of his robes.

He lifts the ring up, holding it in the flat of his palm for a moment, examining it in the moonlight streaming in through the window.

Ironically enough, it’s the first time in close to a millennia of the afterlife that Hua Cheng has touched his own ashes.

They feel warm.

That’s from Xie Lian, though—not him.

Slowly, so carefully, not daring to wake him, the ghost king leans down—pressing a kiss against the God’s forehead, the touch featherlight as the ring is carefully slipped back inside his robes.

“…keep taking care of me until then, love.”

When he rises to his feet, he walks silently through the shrine—and when he opens the door into the nice, there’s the gentle rattling of dice.

/Clack!/

/Clack!/

/Clack—!/

“HEY!” One of the Ghosts barks, “It’s Hua Chengzhu!”

“Welcome back, my lord!”

“Did ya have a nice—?”

The moment the crowds in the streets of Ghost City see the look on Crimson Rain Sought Flower’s face, they scatter like tiny birds swooping out of his way as he stalks down the street.

‘Where are they?’ He barks into another array.

Yin Yu’s response is quiet.

‘Paradise Manor.’

He doesn’t even bother walking across the city, rattling his dice irritably in his palm.

/Clack!/

/Clack!/

/Clack!/

With his next step, he’s in the entrance hall—stalking past servants and messengers, boots thudding sharply against marble floors.

The door to the bedroom rips off of it’s hinges from how forcefully he wrenches it open, not that he’s particularly concerned about property damage—and when he sees the occupants within, he takes a deep breath, shoulders slumping subtly.

She’s fine.

Wearing a female skin today, curled up on the floor beside the bed, hissing like an angry cat as Yin Yu tries to wipe the blood from her cheeks with a cloth, bearing her fangs defensively, but—

Ren Song isn’t angry, she’s just frightened—

And the blood isn’t hers.

But her eyes are bloodshot and swollen, cheeks wet with tears when she looks up at the Ghost King, lips trembling apologetically.

“I-I tried to…” She starts, then stops, deeply ashamed.

Shuo finds value in ability, and berates herself brutally for the smallest failures.

But this wasn’t Ren Song’s mistake.

“…I know.”

Hua Cheng’s tone isn’t harsh now, not the way it was in the array.

He walks over, kneeling down beside Yin Yu, taking the rag from his hands.

Ren Song doesn’t shove his hand away, when he presses it against her cheek.

Instead she gulps, pressing a hand against her chest.

There isn’t a heartbeat there, and she doesn’t need to breathe, but—

She can’t stop hyperventilating.

“He—they’re—when they find out what I did—”

Ren Song will become a target.

“He’ll d…disperse me…”

Hua Cheng is calm, mopping the blood from her cheeks, reaching down to do the same with her hands.

Of course—she means Jun Wu.

“Did anyone else see you?”

Ren Song shakes her head, eyeliner streaked at the corners of her eyes. “B-But he…s-sent the…”

People will come looking.

“Did you leave any evidence?”

The younger ghost shakes her head, sniffling.

Ren Song rarely feels fear anymore, but when she does—it overwhelms her.

“Look at me.”

She shakes her head, whimpering, and Hua Cheng repeats himself.

“Look at me, brat.”

Slowly, she does.

One eye stares back at her, the color of a darkening scar, and in the place of the other, a dark eyepatch.

The gaze she’s known since she was small—and unlike the rest of the world, living and dead—it’s never frightened her.

“Even if they did come for you,” he replies evenly, sitting back on his heels. “What do you think I would do?”

The mere possibility of Jun Wu setting foot in this city—or sending one of his lackeys—with the intention of taking Ren Song would be signing a death warrant.

And Hua Cheng would be the executioner.

Yin Yu watches the exchange between the two…surprised.

He was always aware of the fact that Shuo had a long history with the Ghost Kikng—and while Hua Cheng isn’t a particularly affectionate man…

He can be protective in rare moments.

Usually over territory. Belongings. Things he views as his.

But never over a ghost. Yin Yu hasn’t seen that until now.

After a moment, Ren Song’s form begins to shift again—this time shrinking smaller and smaller, until she’s just a small child again.

Curled up into a ball.

Yin Yu glances over at Hua Cheng, confused, and the Ghost King sighs, explaining.

“This is how old she was when she died,” he mutters, not protesting when the little girl crawls into his arms, clinging around his neck. “She’s aged past it, but, when she’s destabilized…”

Shuo regresses until she calms down. Yanlin used to do the same thing—but far more often, given how much more easily shaken she was, compared to Shuo.

“She’ll be over it in a day or so,” Hua Cheng mutters, rising to his feet with the ghost in one arm, hitched against his hip.

He walks over to Yin Yu, making like he’s going to hand her over, and the former official stumbles back, holding his hands up in confusion—

“What do you want me to do with her?” He mutters, confused.

Hua Cheng stares at him like he’s lost his mind. “Put her to bed, obviously.”

“I…” Yin Yu blinks, looking down at the tear streaked face of a little girl—one who more often than not presents as a grown man—a grown man that /bullies/ him at times—

“Wouldn’t she rather have you do it?” He mumbles, clearly uncomfortable.

Hua Cheng glares, “Maybe, but I have to deal with the one that caused this mess.” He holds her out until Yin Yu relents, gingerly picking the little girl up in his arms.

Ren Song doesn’t seem thrilled either, but clings to him anyway.

“…But…”

Yin Yu looks down at her, then back up at his boss, muttering—

“Didn’t she cause it?”

Hua Cheng’s expression darkens as he shakes his head, turning around, stalking out of the room.

“No,” he mutters, rattling the dice in his hand. “She did not.”

The two ghosts are left alone in the manor after that, and when Shuo starts demanding bedtime stories before she’ll let Yin Yu tuck her in—he can’t even enjoy the prospect of holding it over Ren Song’s head later.

“Do the voices!”

And he really, REALLY needs that raise.

When Xie Lian wakes up that morning, he can feel that the mat beside him is empty—and at first, that isn’t startling. San Lang wakes up before him most mornings, making breakfast, or doing chores just outside, but…

It’s quiet in the shrine, and the god’s stomach plummets.

“…San Lang?” He mutters, sitting up quickly. Maybe a little too quickly, because his head spins slightly in response.

Xie Lian presses his palm to his temple, looking around for the Ghost King’s aura, his heart pounding in his chest.

Where is he? Did something happen? Did he—?

Xie Lian’s throat constricts suddenly with horror, and he wonders if something happened, and he slept through it.

There’s no logical thought, only—

Only the memory of what happens, when he falls asleep beside someone and wakes up alone.

“S-San…San Lang!”

/Clink!/

That sound makes Xie Lian whip around in the proper direction, scanning around for any sign of him, for more footsteps, but—

Instead of seeing a sea of crimson, or the more tailored form that Hua Cheng made for him last night—it’s mostly darkness.

Except for one thing.

A butterfly, sitting on the blankets beside him, wings flapping gently.

Trembling, Xie Lian extends one finger—and when he does, the creature lands on him delicately, sparks of warmth firing into his skin.

‘Dianxia.’

Xie Lian lets out a shaky sigh, covering his mouth.

It’s clearly a recorded message, left behind for him, but—

Still, just hearing an echo of Hua Cheng’s voice makes him ache with relief.

‘I wanted to wait until you woke up before leaving, however—urgent business came up, and I was forced to deal with it personally.”

Xie Lian lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

‘I’ll see you again soon.’

After a moment—Xie Lian has the chance to feel mortified for even panicking to begin with, having had no reason to think that San Lang was in danger, but…

At least now, Xie Lian knows that he’s alright. That’s all that matters, even if…

It’ll be a little quiet, until San Lang comes back.

Even still, Xie Lian should be used to the—

‘Your highness?’

The sudden intrusion of Ling Wen’s voice startles him.

‘You’ve been summoned.’

Xie Lian might not be particularly keen on lingering in the Heavens more than he must—but even he knows better than to refuse a summons to a meeting of all officials of the upper court.

After all—this is likely about his actions in the Crescent Moon pass. He can’t avoid it.

He makes an effort to become presentable, only to find his hair doesn’t have any tangles from sleeping through the night—something that’s happened all week, and he finds it somewhat unusual, but…

He stops curiously when his hand lands on the counter, reaching for the white ribbon he normally uses to tie up his hair, finding something that wasn’t there the night before.

A hair piece—crafted from ivory and jade, from the feel of it, with a flower caved into the face.

Somehow, and he couldn’t tell you why—Xie Lian has the sense that the flowers must be white, just like the…

He shakes himself out of it, taking the hair piece between both hands, examining it more thoroughly.

It must be a gift from Hua Cheng, but…what for?

Xie Lian certainly hasn’t done anything to deserve a gift. San Lang is the one that has gone out of his way, over and over agin in the last week—all to cater to the God’s wishes…

He’ll have to thank the Ghost King, the next time he sees him. And…

Xie Lian turns the hairpiece over between his fingers, thoughtful.

It’s not like he can’t give the Ghost King something in return. He should, actually—after all, he’s done so much, and Xie Lian managed to burn the meal he tried to cook him in gratitude beyond recognition.

Xie Lian resolves himself to the new plan, using the new hairpiece instead of his usual ribbon. It’s surprisingly easy to maneuver, despite the fact that the God hasn’t used anything like it since his first ascension, even if it’s slightly less ostentatious.

But if this was anything like the jewel encrusted, golden pieces he used to wear—Xie Lian probably would have been too uncomfortable to use it in public.

Not because he doesn’t enjoy fine things or find them frivolous—that isn’t it at all, he just…

After everything that has happened, Xie Lian doesn’t deserve to accept that sort of luxury, and even if he did—after 800 years of living off of scraps on the streets…he wouldn’t know how.

In any case, Hua Cheng’s gift…he doesn’t deserve it, but the prince certainly likes it.

Given the importance of the meeting in question, Xie Lian goes through the effort of changing into a different robe. It’s his usual shade of white, but…

This time, Xie Lian reaches for a piece he had meant to sell, one with a simple outline of a floral pattern stitched into the hems of the sleeves in silver thread.

Nothing like the robes he used to wear—Xie Lian would feel embarrassed, wearing something like that now.

Still, he’s an ascended god once again, and…

Xie Lian sighs, straightening as he reaches for where he left his hat hanging by the door, surprised to find…it’s far sturdier than it was before, with the addition of a simple, translucent veil.

Did San Lang do this as well?

In spite of everything, the god can’t help but smile, lifting the hat up and over his head, tying it off underneath his chin.

San Lang really is good at everything, isn’t he?

The Heavenly Officials he spoke to before—they made Ghost Kings seem like such inelegant creatures.

That they were violent, almost animalistic beings with little humanity left to them, but after spending time with Hua Cheng, Xie Lian…

He suspects there’s more to becoming a Calamity than what meets the eye.

When he ascends to the heavens once more—the first thing he notices is all of the movement.

Generally, the Heavens are a somewhat tranquil space. No one rushes anywhere, there’s no need to.

But now? All of the officials seem to be moving about in a flurry.

Most of them deputy officials, as the meeting in the Grand Martial Hall is supposed to start any moment—Xie Lian is the one that’s running late, but still…

All of this over Pei Junior?

Xie Lian doesn’t mean to belittle the loss of life, but…

It isn’t necessary to bring the entire Heavenly Court into the matter to deal with it.

Xie Lian grimaces, remembering his own trial before his first banishment.

Such a matter—it doesn’t need to be an act of public humiliation. And General Ming Guang won’t be pleased.

Which isn’t particularly good news for Xie Lian, since he’s the reason that—

“Your highness! Your highness the crown prince!” A voice cries out, strained—and Xie Lian halts in midstep, lifting his chin to try and figure out who is calling to him.

After all—no one does.

Not here, anyway.

But the figure calling out—he rushes past Xie Lian, chasing down…

Xie Lian squints ahead, making out an orange aura in the distance, bright, flickering slightly like a flame, and…just underneath it is a shape that looks like that of…

A tiger spirit?

“Your highness,” the deputy official stops by the martial god’s side, breathing hard—so much so that he has to bend over, pressing his hands against his knees as he wheezes. “Goodness, how could you forget your identification pass before leaving for the meeting?!”

“Oh!”

The sound of that voice—that bright, familiar voice—makes Xie Lian freeze, the color draining from his cheeks.

“I was in a hurry when I realized I was running late—so I forgot it,” the young god admits, scratching the back of his head with a laugh.

It’s…

‘Guoshi! Guoshi! Did you see me? Did I get it right this time?’

Oh.

It takes Xie Lian a moment to realize that the figure has twisted around to look at him, feeling the weight of someone’s gaze on his face, or, well—not just anyone.

The Martial God of the East: Lang Qianqiu.

There’s a pause—but it’s a brief one.

Xie Lian raises one hand in greeting, a gentle smile on his face, his eyes shut as he greets his fellow Martial God.

“Hello, your highness the crown prince,” he murmurs graciously.

Lang Qianqiu stares for a moment, his eyes wide.

Taking in that face, one that he’s never seen before, but…

“…” He grins widely, eyes shining as he waves back at the white robed god, waving his own hand in greeting. “Hello!”

Xie Lian’s smile softens slightly with fondness.

He always was such a friendly child—even to people who were strangers to him. And, as far as Lang Qianqiu is concerned, Xie Lian might as well be a stranger.

The Deputy God beside Lang Qianqiu sighs, rubbing his temple. “Your highness, you’re already running late…”

“Alright, alight…” The martial god mutters, turning his head as his tiger continues the journey towards the grand martial hall, paws thudding softly against the ground.

Xie Lian stays there for a moment, listening to the whispers.

Talking about how awkward this must be for him

Talking about how, as the prince of a kingdom that destroyed Xie Lian, Lang Qianqiu must be more powerful.

And how, if Lang Qianqiu were to fall as Xie Lian had—he would never lower himself in the same way.

Ah, those rumors still exist then, don’t they?

In any case…

Xie Lian ignores them.

“Your highness?”

Good Heavens, is there another member of royalty nearby that Xie Lian just so happened to—?

Ling Wen’s voice draws closer, “You must be careful when you go into the Great Martial Hall later.”

In her arms are several scrolls worth of evidence, ready to present, and she’s flanked by two civil gods, each even more weighed down with material than she is.

“Pei Junior is likely to be exiled,” she explains calmly. “So the General might have words with you.”

“There are worse things than exile,” Xie Lian replies calmly—and for once, Ling Wen seems a little chagrined, remembering who she’s speaking to. “Has there been any progress on the search for the child from Mount Yu Jun?”

“…I’m afraid not, your highness,” Ling Wen admits.

“But we’re doing our best, and will continue pursuing a thorough investigation.”

Of course, Xie Lian believes her—and he can’t doubt that an effort is being made. Ling Wen is audibly exhausted.

Even now, she’s receiving memos, papers folded into the shapes of cranes flittering around her head, a small storm of information and requests.

Xie Lian can’t help but feel sympathy. “I’m sorry for troubling you.”

“It’s my job,” Ling Wen replies simply. “I’ll go on ahead.”

Xie Lian isn’t far behind her, ascending the steps of the Grand Martial Hall quietly, arms folded into the sleeves of his robes. He walks lightly, hoping to make his entrance as inoffensive as possible, but…

Inside, you could not hear a pin drop.

Even in a Heavenly Capital filled with golden palaces, the Grand Martial Hall easily dwarfs them all. With perfectly polished marble floors that almost look like black mirrors, wide pillars with dragons coiled around them.

The Dragon is Jun Wu’s personal symbol, after all.

Engraved into the ceilings, above a throne so massive, it sits an entire meter above floor level.

The last time Xie Lian was in this room, it was for his own trial. And he—

“Xianle.”

The prince stiffens, his shoulders straightening at the sound of that voice.

“You’re here.”

As if Xie Lian ever would have refused a summons, but…his stomach twists with uncertainty, trying to read the emperor’s tone.

He sounds…happy to see Xie Lian, which is…

A relief, but surprising.

“I’m sure you also know why you’ve been summoned here.”

The prince nods.

“I do,” he bows, clasping his hands in front of him respectfully. “But I was under the impression that the matter had already been settled.”

“That remans to be seen,” A voice replies—deep and rumbling, echoing from behind him.

There’s something undeniably attractive about the sound of it, and…familiar.

“Ming Guang.” Jun Wu responds calmly, glancing the General over with a detached gaze. “I’m surprised to see you up and moving already.”

“It was against my orders,” Mu Qing grouses, his arms crossed.

Xie Lian raises an eyebrow, confused.

Is the General injured? How could that be?

“You thought I wouldn’t come?” Pei replies calmly, arching an eyebrow. “It involves my family, after all.”

And while Pei Ming is many things—he’s infamously protective over those close to him.

No one protests, but the figure standing the closest to Jun Wu’s throne watches him with a narrowed gaze, sapphire eyes flashing with frustration.

“Besides, I visited Pei Junior before coming here,” the General continues, stepping to the front of the crowd.

With one exception, every single Martial God wears armor—but for most, the protective gear favors form over purpose.

In the case of Ming Guang, however, it serves both. The heavenly metal gleams on his chest and shoulders, fastened to his robes with rubies.

Expensive—but battle worn—and unlike some martial gods who will return their gear to the heavenly armorers over the smallest of scratches, Pei Ming prefers to keep his.

Other than that on his left eye, he doesn’t have his battle scars anymore.

Gods have long memories, but in his experience, nothing teaches a better lesson than damage, forming a deep scar.

The throbbing pain in his side is a lesson he’s still in the process of learning.

And, as it happens—Pei Ming is the only god in the heavens that can look the heavenly emperor in the eye without being forced to lift his chin, given that they’re the same height.

“While Pei Xiu used a clone in the Crescent Moon Pass,” Pei explains, “it was still rather strong.”

Xie Lian bites the inside of his cheek, not saying a word as the general continues, “Strong enough to handle most savage ghosts—but when he met the Prince in the Sinner’s Pit, he encountered a young man dressed in red. One so powerful, Pei Junior couldn’t even fight back.”

That sends a rush of whispers throughout the room, but the Prince of Xianle doesn’t react, his expression smooth.

“I apologize for my rudeness, your highness,” Pei Ming turns back to Xie Lian, walking away from the throne.

Jun Wu remains silent, eyes slightly narrowed.

“It’s an honor to meet you again.”

Xie Lian smiles politely, bowing his chin in acknowledgement. “The honor is all mine, General.”

Pei’s smile is infamously charming, and just from the sound of him and what Xie Lian can sense of his size alone…he’s relieved not to see it.

And compared to the other martial gods in the martial hall—aside from the likes of Jun Wu, who’s aura covers the entire capital—Pei Ming’s is the brightest.

Shades of orange, red, and gold—reminiscent of the sunrises Xie Lian can hardly remember.

It’s a pleasant sight, anyhow.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Pei Ming muses—after all, while they haven’t seen one another since Xie Lian was a teenager (and the prince can hardly remember that time)—there was never ill will between them.

After all—both men respect strength, and as such, each other.

“But I’m afraid I have to ask—that young man who was traveling with you,” Pei lifts his chin, violet eyes surveying the hall, “…Which god is he?”

“…” Xie Lian clears his throat, then smiles.

“He approached my shrine as a normal young man several days ago, saying he had nowhere else to go. He was very kind and helpful, and when he offered to accompany me to the Crescent Moon, I allowed him to come along.” The Crown Prince explains.

“He never did anything suspicious in my presence, and as far as I am aware, he isn’t a god.”

“…But your highness,” Pei smiles, violet eyes watching Xie Lian’s face intently, waiting for him to show any hint of dishonesty, “Pei Xiu told me the two of you were quite close.”

Xie Lian stiffens with surprise.

…Did they?

“Far too familiar with one another to be simple strangers,” the general of the north concludes. “How can that be?”

Xie Lian opens his mouth, then closes it, because…they really /did/ only meet a few days ago, so…

“General Pei.”

Xie Lian pauses when he hears a young man speak up in the crowd, his voice melodic, almost breezy in nature—but ringing clear.

“Your source is a man who has committed grave crimes, and is about to be exiled,” the god points out, twirling a whisk between his fingers.

“Is he truly the most trustworthy source of information?”

The younger man steps forward, wearing robes of white, green, and gold. He’s striking, with a delicately handsome face, emerald eyes, and long, dark waves of hair—and now, he’s smiling at Pei Ming with veiled disdain.

“…Well,” the general smiles back, eyes slightly narrowed, “That depends on Generals Nan Yang and Xuan Zhen.”

The two men in question stiffen. They never mean to, but they always end up standing side by side at these things.

(Today, they were sitting in pointed silence.)

“If it’s who I suspect, they should be able to recognize the wounds.”

Before Xie Lian can question what he means, General Ming Guang snaps his fingers.

/Crack!/

A portal opens in the roof of the Great Martial Hall, allowing a figure to plummet forth.

/WHOOSH!/

The clone rushes down to the floor, coming to a sudden halt a few feet off of the ground, hovering.

Jun Wu glances to the two gods in question, sending each a nod to indicate that they should do as Pei Ming asks, leading both to step forward obediently.

The clone is empty now, just a limp, hollow shell, eyes staring up at the ceiling vacantly—but it’s absolutely covered in lacerations. None of which seem meant to kill—

(Because if there had been the desire to, they would have.)

But the number of cuts is what’s truly shocking.

After a moment, Feng Xin looks up with a nod, “It’s him—”

“—it’s the saber E’Ming,” Mu Qing concludes the sentence for him with a nod.

There’s an uproar among the other officials, and Pei Ming smiles, satisfied. “Thank you for confirming my suspicion, Generals.”

He turns back to Jun Wu, clasping his hands before him before dropping his head in a shallow bow. “Please reconsider the matter, my lord. There’s clearly much more to this than we currently understand.”

“General,” the young god from before speaks up again, his voice sharp.

“Are you trying to imply that the Crown Prince colluded with a Ghost King to frame Little Pei? And for what purpose would he do such a thing?”

Xie Lian doesn’t recognize the young man, but he’s defended Xie Lian twice now, which is two times more than what he’s accustomed to.

“…I never said a thing about collusion,” Pei mutters, rubbing his temple—and then he winces, pressing one palm against his side.

Xie Lian can’t see how unusually pale the god is—but he can hear the slight strain to his breathing.

He is hurt then, isn’t he?

“It’s possible that Hua Cheng deceived him, after all,” Pei Ming’s eyes flicker back to Jun Wu, narrowing slightly, “the Crown Prince has been allowed to wander the Mortal Realm in a vulnerable state, despite his banishment being over.”

Xie lian stiffens at that.

He can admit—he doesn’t know why he still has his shackles either. But he isn’t—

He doesn’t need Pei Ming’s pity.

“In any case, it’s not my place to question that,” The General shrugs, not breaking eye contact with Jun Wu. “But it means Hua Cheng could have bewitched him.”

“There were witnesses to Little Pei’s confession,” the younger god glares, crossing his arms. “Are you so blinded by family association that you would ignore that?”

Pei’s eyes flash, and a new voice rings out, smoother than the others, Xie Lian notices—but stern.

“Enough.”

Shi Wudu has stood near the front of the room, silent for the entire meeting—but now, he snaps his fan shut, sending his little brother a cold look, making Shi Qingxuan shrink just a little bit.

He pretends not to be bothered, of course, but no one enjoys a public scolding.

“You have made your point. If you want to squabble with the General for personal reasons, you won’t waste the emperor’s time while you do it.”

Xie Lian has to admit—the tension between Pei and this young god does seem somewhat personal, doesn’t it? Are they enemies?

In any case, he did speak up for Xie Lian several times, so the prince speaks up in return now.

“If you want to check for any trace of deceptive magic on my body now, Jun Wu is welcome to do so,” he speaks out, lifting his chin. “And even if it was Hua Cheng in disguise…”

He can’t see the way Mu Qing presses a palm to his forehead from behind him, exasperated.

“…He isn’t responsible for Pei Xiu’s actions. I witnessed his confession myself. Just because he’s a Ghost King—that doesn’t mean you can blame everything on him. That’s unreasonable.”

Pei Ming, Feng Xin, and Mu Qing stare at him, each wearing expressions of shocked confusion—all while Shi Qingxuan fans himself aggressively, clearly miffed from being publicly rebuked by his elder brother.

“Hear, hear!”

“You—?”

“The Water Master is correct,” Jun Wu stands up.

“That’s enough. Pei Xiu has confessed, and his account matches that of Ke Mo. The issue is settled. Any further debate is unproductive.”

“…” Pei Ming looks glances to Shi Wudu, and Shi Qingxuan’s eyes narrow slightly, trying to understand the look shared between them.

“…Understood,” Pei mutters between clenched teeth, bowing his head in agreement. “But the matter of Hua Cheng’s involvement is concerning. Will there be an investigation?”

“Of course,” Jun Wu replies calmly. “But I understand there was another matter to be discussed.”

Xie Lian tilts his head to the side, confused—after all of that, he was convinced the meeting had been called because General Pei wanted to protest Pei Junior’s fate, but—

“I sent General Pei to deal with a series of attacks in Qinghe last week,” Jun Wu explains.

“I understand that, in the process of performing your investigation, you came across something rather serious that you wanted to report to the Heavenly Court.”

“…I did,” Pei agrees, reaching for something strapped to his hip.

He lifts his chin, speaking loud enough for the entire room to hear. “The violence turned out to be the work of the local cultivation clan—unintentional,” he clarifies. “But in the process of resolving the issue, they dispersed an ancient local ghost, one who wasn’t involved.”

He steps forward once more, a crimson cloak fluttering gently behind his shoulders as he moves. “When Quan Yizhen and I were watching the creature fade, it attempted to attack him with this,”

Now, he lifts the item up—the dagger gleaming in the air, black steel, wickedly sharp.

“When I defended him, I was the one that ended up getting stabbed,” the General explains, turning his gaze back to Jun Wu.

From the emperor’s side, the Water Master crosses his arms, his gaze turning tense.

“And I haven’t been able to use spiritual power to heal the wound.”

That sends a worried murmur throughout the court, and now, Shi Qingxuan stops fanning himself, leaning over to whisper next to Xie Lian’s ear.

“It’s a knife, your highness. Or a dagger, I suppose. Is there a difference?”

“…” Xie Lian smiles, slightly endeared.

After all, it didn’t seem to occur to anyone else that he couldn’t see what was going on, so it was very considerate of the young man to say something. “I figured that out when he mentioned the stabbing part,” the prince whispers back, “but thank you.”

Then, he adds—

“Daggers have two sharp edges. For a knife, only one side is sharpened.”

“Ah…” Shi Qingxuan murmurs, holding his fan up in front of their faces to muffle them, whispering, “It’s a dagger, then.”

Mu Qing’s eyebrow twitches. “Would you two keep it down?”

Just as he speaks, Jun Wu looks to him, arching an eyebrow. “Xuan Zhen. I understand you were the one who treated him upon his return?”

Mu Qing clears his throat, stepping away from the other two gods as he speaks, “Yes, my lord. General Ming Guang lost a considerable amount of blood, and even with the help of Nan Yang, Ling Wen, and the Water Master lending spiritual power, I wasn’t able to heal him.”

That doesn’t seem to set the room at ease, and even Xie Lian is slightly startled. After all—he doesn’t even have spiritual power, and his body recovers remarkably well from damage.

He would know.

How could a weapon harm a god—one as powerful as Pei at that—to that degree?

“…His blood is clotting, and the mortal medicine I performed on his body seemed to take,” Mu Qing explains. “The wound will heal—but at the same pace as it would if he was a human.”

Shi Wudu’s expression is calm, but he’s tapping his closed fan repeatedly against his wrist.

It’s a subtle gesture, one that could be mistaken for impatience, for anyone who doesn’t know him well. “So, what?” He questions flatly, sounding vaguely irritated. “Is the great General Ming Guang a mortal, now?”

“Oh, no.” Pei shakes his head, waving that notion off.

“I stabbed myself with a normal weapon this morning to make sure—and that wound healed just as it should have.”

The Water Master’s eyes narrow.

“…You what?” He questions sharply, voice flat.

“I told him it was moronic,” Mu Qing mutters, rolling his eyes. “My deputy fainted.”

“But, we have our answer.” Pei shrugs, striding calmly towards the throne, holding the weapon out to Jun Wu, flipping it casually between his fingers, catching it lightly by the blade between his thumb and index finger, so the Emperor can grip it by the handle.

“He asked me to bring it to you, before the ghost dissipated completely,” the general shrugs. “I don’t know what his intentions were.”

Jun Wu grips the weapon, staring down at it for a moment in complete silence, and…

Pei watches his expression closely, seeing…

Fear.

Briefly. Only a flash of it before Jun Wu’s gaze returns to it’s usual demeanor of eternal calm.

“…Well,” the emperor mutters, not lifting his eyes from the weapon.

“You, Ming Guang, are very lucky to be alive.”

Pei shrugs, taking a step back from the throne—unimpressed.

“I’ve been told that before.”

Jun Wu turns around, examining the blade more closely—allowing no one else to see his expression. “This weapon is older than even me,” he murmurs, examining the characters on the hilt. “I’m assuming you couldn’t read this?”

“…No,” Pei Ming agrees with a frown. “Even Ling Wen couldn’t.”

“She’s too young to know it,” Jun Wu sighs, his knuckles white where they grip the hilt.

“It’s called the God Slayer.”

Every official in the room falls silent with a hush, fear ringing in the air.

The…what?

“It renders Heavenly flesh mortal.” The emperor continues, still facing away from rest the of the room, his head slightly bent. “If you had been hit in a vital point…”

The gravity of the matter hits Xie Lian, sending shivers down his spine.

Ming Guang would have been slain.

And, despite being the potential victim—he seems calm about the matter. That much Xie Lian can understand.

A soldier has tempered nerves, after all.

“Are you familiar with the weapon, my lord?”

There’s a long pause, one where Jun Wu does not speak.

It’s unlike him.

As a matter of fact, of all of the gods here—and, as the eldest aside from the Rain Master, Ming Guang has known him the longest—

He’s never seen Jun Wu seem shaken.

“…I know the stories,” the god mutters, slowly lifting his chin. “From the Heavenly Dynasty before mine.”

It’s well known that this isn’t the first Heavenly Dynasty, nor is Jun Wu the first Emperor. But his reign has gone on for so long, there isn’t anyone left to remember what came before.

Finally, he asks the room a question:

“Are any of you familiar with the name Zhao Beitong?”

Of course—no one replies.

Slowly, the Heavenly Emperor turns back around—his expression grim, but a mask of calm. “This was the blade she used to assassinate my predecessor,” he explains. “She plunged it into his heart, as the histories once said.”

…Assassinated?

Gods often die in battle, or fade away into obscurity, but…

Assassination? Of one as strong as a Heavenly Emperor?

“…Was she a goddess?” Shi Wudu questions, eyeing Jun Wu wih veiled suspicion.

“No,” the emperor shakes his head.

“Zhao Beitong was the world’s first Calamity.”

Another chill runs down Xie Lian’s spine as Jun Wu descends down the steps from his throne, dagger still in hand. “As the stories go, she lived over two millennia ago, in a long destroyed kingdom. A commoner, who captured the heart of a prince.”

It almost doesn’t sound real. More like a legend, than something that actually happened, but…

In Xie Lian’s experience, most legends are based in truth.

“But she wanted more,” Jun Wu explains, rubbing his thumb over the snake on the hilt of the blade, his gaze unreadable.

“When their Kingdom fell into war, a god approached her with a choice: to save them from certain defeat,” Jun Wu’s eyes slide over the room, before finally settling on one set of eyes. “But at a terrible cost. And she would not know the price until it was paid.”

Shi Wudu stares back at him, silent, his expression in explicably pale.

“…And in the beginning, there was victory—seemingly at no cost, until…” Jun Wu trails off, keeping his eyes on the Water Master. “She lost the dearest thing in the world to her—her son.”

Xie Ian feels slightly nauseous, listening to the emperor tell the tale, reaching up to grip the ring on his chest for comfort, stroking the metal as he listens.

“She found him in his crib, seemingly asleep—only to find that his soul had been taken,” Jun Wu concludes grimly.

“It was a curse that followed her for the rest of her life. She was forced to give up her second child as a hostage in peace talks. And her third son…”

His eyes slide away from Shi Wudu, who seems eager for the opportunity to step back.

“…Fell to his death, tragically.”

Xie Lian grips Hong’er tighter between his fingers, struggling to understand the depth of such grief.

Losing a child is a different kind of pain, and losing three? He…

“Her kingdom fell shortly after—and with no one else to blame…” Jun Wu sighs. “She turned to the Heavens.”

A tragic choice, the prince supposes—but the poor woman must have been mad with grief.

“But instead of turning on the one god who offered her that choice in the beginning—she turned to the one thing she had left, her husband.”

Jun Wu glances down at the dagger, staring at his reflection in the steel.

“She told him that she had been tricked. That the gods had conspired against him, jealous of his cultivation. After all—he was on the cusp of ascending as a god himself.”

“But then…his heart was filled only with hate. And as the stories say—Zhao Beitong was a blacksmith, by trade. She forged powerful weapons, all in the name of getting her husband to slaughter the gods she blamed for her children’s deaths.”

Jun Wu lifts his gaze from the dagger, and now—

Now, he turns his eyes on Xie Lian—who can’t see that he’s being stared at, but shrinks under Jun Wu’s gaze nonetheless.

“He did as she wanted—and in the end, Zhao Beitong was a calamity, and her husband, a Ghost King.”

The next words he says—while not explicitly so—are targeted.

“He became the White Clothed Calamity, Bai Wuxiang.”

The Prince goes completely still, fingers tightening around Hong’er until they ache.

She…what?

“Of course, I thought it was just a story, but now…”

Jun Wu sighs, “Seeing this dagger, one straight out of the legends…it would seem that it was true.”

Pei Ming frowns, watching as Jun Wu tucks the weapon into his sleeves. “But if that’s the case…why did that ghost have it? And why did he want me to bring it to you?”

The Heavenly Emperor shrugs, looking down at the empty shell of Pei Xiu’s clone. “Given what the blade was used for—I assume it was made as some sort of threat against me. And between Hua Cheng and Qi Rong, two prominent ghosts have been on the move in recent days…”

Xie Lian frowns, not wanting to see the blame cast on Hua Cheng once again. After all, he was with Xie Lian for the entire week—and confirmed to the prince that it was in fact his real body, not a clone. He couldn’t have been involved in the incident with the dagger.

“But he—”

But, to everyone’s surprise—it’s the Water Master who speaks up, interrupting the prince, speaking in a way that makes everyone—even Pei Ming—stare at him with surprise.

“This couldn’t be Hua Cheng,” Shi Wudu sneers, staring Jun Wu in the eye. “It’s not his style.”

Feng Xin frowns from Mu Qing’s side, crossing his arms. “I think going after Heavenly Officials is exactly his style, with all due respect.”

Shi Wudu doesn’t even look at him, keeping his gaze on Jun Wu.

“Crimson Rain Sought Flower isn’t a coward,” the Water God explains.

“He’s well known for sending very direct messages to those he wishes to fight. He doesn’t need lies, threats, or manipulation to impress upon people that he’s powerful.”

Xie Lian agrees wholeheartedly. Hua Cheng did threaten Ke Mo in the Sinner’s Pit, but…It was quite direct.

If Hua Cheng had wanted to threaten Jun Wu, he would have done so directly—and it would have been followed up with a swift follow through.

Not to mention the fact that Hua Cheng wouldn’t use a weapon that nearly assured victory.

He loves a good fight far too much for that.

Jun Wu stares at Shi Wudu for a long moment, watching as the Water Master snaps his fan open, nonchalant, slowly fanning it towards him as they stare one another down.

And yes, there is anger lingering underneath that gaze.

But it’s directed the Water Master, and him alone.

And It stops Pei from asking any more questions.

“…That’s an excellent point, Shi Wudu—as always,” Jun Wu replies calmly, showing no hint of tension in his posture or tone. “We’ll have to conduct a thorough investigation of the matter in order to uncover the truth.”

Xie Lian is honestly surprised that any god dares speak to Jun Wu so candidly. Not that the emperor has ever been anything but gracious or polite to other members of the Heavenly court, but…

It requires a certain level of audacity and pride.

Which, Xie Lian supposes makes sense—coming from the Infamous ‘Water Tyrant’ that San Lang described.

“…In any case,” Jun Wu continues, looking back over the crowd. “There’s nothing more to be done for more—and Ming Guang, you should return to bed rest. Meeting dismissed.”

Everyone begins to make their way out of the Grand Martial Hall—with Xie Lian following close behind, lost in thought about everything that just happened, and what he should tell San Lang the next time he sees him—

“Xianle.”

The Prince stops.

“We need to speak privately.”

Xie Lian had hoped he could leave without incident—but he isn’t surprised by Jun Wu’s request. He nods, folding his hands inside the sleeves of his robes, waiting as the other gods filter out of the hall.

Shi Qingxuan stops beside him, looking like he wants to speak to him, but—

“Shi Qingxuan.” Pei Ming stops beside him, one hand still pressed against his ribs, and Xie Lian sensed that he seemed irritated before, but…

Now, when he looks at the young god, the air around him seems tense with genuine anger.

“For your older brother’s sake—you should think before making a scene like that.”

The Wind Master stops, casting Pei Ming an irritated stare, eyes narrowing defensively. “General Pei, don’t try and use my brother to intimidate me. I’m not scared of him.”

That makes the General of the North pause, and when Shi Qingxuan looks into violet eyes, he sees something odd. Not the anger, no, or the protective frustration, but…

It doesn’t seem to be about Pei Xiu. Not entirely.

“You’re still such a child, aren’t you?”

Shi Qingxuan startles, his grip tightening around his wrist. “I don’t think—”

“No,” Pei interrupts him. “You don’t think. Not about how your actions impact him. You’re four centuries old, that’s old enough to know—”

“Don’t involve yourself in family matters.”

Green eyes, normally lighthearted and easy going, glare at Pei Ming with ever growing tension. “Gege despises people who get ahead of themselves.”

It’s always been just him and his brother, after all. That’s the only family Shi Qingxuan has ever had.

Pei Ming has been a close friend and ally and friend of his brother since they arrived to the Heavens. And Shi Qingxuan never liked him. Never liked how easily he could capture Wudu’s attention, taking it away from him.

But in the last century, things have been different.

Shi Qingxuan obviously isn’t aware of the intimate details of his brother’s personal life—but he does know that something has been wrong with him.

The nights in their palace are often pierced by the cries of nightmares.

And he also knows that Pei has gotten closer in that time.

“…Even if I am ahead of myself,” the general mutters, his voice low, “I’m not wrong. You’re inconsiderate, ungrateful, and—”

“—And you’re an arrogant, condescending—!”

“How about this,” both men fall silent as the subject of their argument speaks up from behind them.

“You’re being a brat,” Shi Wudu directs the first criticism at his brother, pointing his fan at him with a sharp rebuke, making Shi Qingxuan flush slightly, and when Pei Ming (very maturely) snorts victoriously—

He ends up jabbed in his injured side with that very fan.

“Ai!” He cries, clutching his ribs, “Shit, what was that for?!”

“You stabbed yourself once today already,” the Water God replies coldly. “I presumed you must either not feel the pain, or you’re an imbecile. Clearly it’s the latter.”

Shi Qingxuan smirks. “HA! Gege, did you—hey!”

The Water Master grabs him by the scruff of the neck, bodily hauling him out of the Grand Martial Hall as he protests, flailing his whisk, “Gege, cut it out! This is so embarrassing—I’m not a kid anymore, you can’t just manhandle me whenever you want—!”

Pei Ming watches the Shi brothers for a moment.

In particular, he finds himself staring at how dark and smooth the elder’s hair is this afternoon, swaying behind him in a dark, lustrous curtain, pulled back with a clasp encrusted with sapphire and pearl.

“…I apologize.”

Xie Lian glances up, startled to realize that the General is speaking to him. “…Oh, please, the one who should be apologizing is—!”

“No,” Pei shakes his head, not allowing the prince to demure out of politeness. “You did nothing wrong. You just got…”

He doesn’t look back at the emperor, even if he can feel Jun Wu’s gaze on his back.

Pei is aware of the Emperor’s displeasure with him—but the reason behind it is a mystery to the general.

“…Caught up in the middle of something,” he concludes, shaking his head.

Before Xie Lian can really think about exactly what he means—the General strides out of the grand martial hall, and…

Xie Lian and Jun Wu are left alone, standing in the empty, cavernous space.

“Xianle.”

The prince remains quiet, his arms folded as Jun Wu addresses him.

Jun Wu’s boots click softly across the floors as he approaches, “Crimson Rain Sought Flower…” He muses, watching the way Xie Lian’s shoulders tense, then slump. “The Scimitar E’Ming…tell me, what’s happened?”

They haven’t spoken in eight centuries, and still…

When Jun Wu says the word Xianle—

His first instinct is to feel shame.

“I’m sorry—”

Without even thinking, his knees start to buckle as he drops to his knees, head sinking low, but large, strong hands catch his elbows, gripping firmly as they left the prince back to his feet.

“Do you know what you’ve done wrong?” Jun Wu questions softly, not letting him go, even now that Xie Lian is standing once more. His grip on the prince’s elbows isn’t painful—but it stops him from retreating.

“If so, tell me.”

Xie Lian keeps his chin down, his stomach twisting with remorse and shame, because…even now, Jun Wu’s tone is gentle. He isn’t angry, or resentful. Just…concerned.

And Xie Lian had come here with every intention of lying to him, after all of Jun Wu’s kindness.

It’s shameful.

“…Never mind,” the emperor sighs, turning away from Xie Lian as he walks towards the doors leading to the private chambers beyond the grand hall. “Come.”

Xie Lian follows, pushing down any reluctance.

The first time he stood in this room, he was little more than a child.

Trailing behind Jun Wu like a lost little duckling, plucked from his palaces, his servants, his parents—even his Guoshi. He was so eager to charge forward, to be grown up, to impress the heavenly emperor, but…

In the end, Jun Wu became more of a parental figure than a peer.

When Xie Lian was a boy, this room was made from white marble, veins of gold running through, with pearls embedded into the ceiling, symbolizing the grand martial temples in the world below.

There were many, even back then—but Xie Lian imagines there must be a sea of them now.

It’s a little different in other ways.

The chamber used to be completely closed off, but now the far wall has been opened up, marble pillars and steps leading down to a courtyard, the near entirety of it covered in a koi pond, lily pads floating across the surface.

After all, one has to adapt.

His wife taught him that, if you are going to lie—if you get caught, everything falls apart.

The Prince of Xianle taught him that it’s easier to mold something when it’s broken.

He applied those lessons, going forward.

When he looked to pull someone under his control again, he didn’t lie. Misled, manipulated, maybe—but never lied. Chose someone that was already fractured.

But Xianle also taught him the importance of never keeping too firm of a grip. Enticing was better than intimidation.

So, when he saw a young elemental god seeming forlorn, ill at ease within the enclosed walls of the Grand Martial Palace, he opened some of those barriers up. Allowed flowers to grow. Brought in a hint of life.

And for a time, it worked rather well.

Until there was outside interference, anyway.

Now, there’s an opportunity to try again—and of course, there’s…

Crimson Rain Sought Flower.

Jun Wu’s eyes narrow for a moment, his brow creasing for a before becoming smooth once more.

“…If you’re apologizing from what has happened in the past…” The emperor shakes his head. “Put it from your mind. It’s behind you now.”

Xie Lian pause, struggling to think of a reply, his tongue dry, pressing to the roof his mouth anxiously.

He can’t do that.

He can try and smile through it, or ignore it even. Xie Lian does that every single day.

But he can’t put it out of his mind completely.

Eventually, he allows himself a small wince, muttering—

“…How could I ever forget?”

Jun Wu walks ahead of him, staring at the pond.

“…Then try to look forward,” he shrugs. “You saw in the meeting—we’re living in difficult times. You’ll be needed.”

Needed.

Xie Lian’s fingers twitch slightly, folded inside his sleeves, and all he manages is a small, tired chuckle.

“Xianle is no more than a scrap god, now.”

It’s funny—he never usually refers to himself in the third person, but…when he’s with someone with such a large presence, it’s hard not to unconsciously mimic certain mannerisms.

“I just hope to not get in the way more than I already have.”

Jun Wu’s eyes flicker back to him.

“Why so self-deprecating?” He questions—his tone sharp enough to make Xie Lian pause, startled.

There was a time when people thought he wasn’t self deprecating enough, after all.

“You’ve handled these last two situations rather well.”

The prince bows his head, reluctant.

“…and yet,” The emperor continues, watching a set of koi fish swirling in the water—one with blue scales along the body and red fins, the other neatly entirely white, with only a smattering of red scales around the crown, “…you encountered someone extraordinary.”

Xie Lian stares into the darkness ahead, his fingers fidgeting slightly inside his sleeves. Logically, he knows he has no right to be dishonest with Jun Wu in any regard, but…

“I just ran into a very interesting young man as I was traveling, and we spent a few days together.”

It would be one thing if it was only about risking Xie Lian’s reputation, but after how kind Hua Cheng was to him…

The prince doesn’t want to cause him any trouble. Not that he thinks Jun Wu would leap on the opportunity to punish either of them simply for associating, but…

“And that child just so happened to be a ghost king…” Jun Wu trails off, finally looking up from the koi pond.

“…Xianle,” the emperor sighs, shaking his head. “You must be more careful with how you speak in front of the others. None of them would have believed that.”

Xie Lian isn’t surprised by that, not in the least—but then again, regardless of what he has ever said or done, the Heavenly Court has it’s own perception of things.

“In any case,” Jun Wu shrugs, turning to face the prince, resting one palm on his shoulder.

It sits heavily.

“I know that you wouldn’t collude with the ghostly realm,” Jun Wu assumes him gently, watching as the Prince of Xianle’s shoulders slump slightly with relief. “That isn’t in your nature. But if the two of you have a good relationship…”

He trails off, watching Xie Lian’s face.

It’s more of an implication than a question, but…

Xie Lian is a pleaser, at his core. Dislikes lying or upsetting others. And, the longer Jun Wu lets it sit in the air, eventually—the younger god caves.

“I have a high opinion of him,” Xie Lian admits. “He’s been very kind.”

After all—after how much Hua Cheng was accused of in that meeting, not saying anything about how well the Ghost King treated him would be wrong. And…

“Then I’ll have to take your word for it,” Jun Wu shrugs, lifting his head. “But it does complicate things.”

Xie Lian glances up, a little weary. “…It does? I don’t think he had anything to do with Pei Junior’s actions, or the knife—”

“No, no…” Jun Wu waves him off, glancing up at the ceiling, the pearls glimmering down. “It’s nothing like that. There’s an unrelated situation.”

Beyond what happened in the Crescent Moon Pass? How could that’s have happened in only a few hours—?

“I didn’t need to summon the entire Heavenly Court for just Pei Xiu’s trial,” Jun Wu shrugs, his footsteps clicking down the hall once more as Xie Lian moves to follow him.

“After all—making a show out of it displeased Ming Guang,” Jun Wu admits, seeming somewhat remorseful. “Trials are normally more private affairs.”

It’s odd, because Xie Lian doesn’t remember his own trial that way at all.

It felt incredibly public.

But then again…

It was over eight centuries ago now, and of course—it was a humiliating memory at the time. Xie Lian probably just remembers it less generously for that reason.

“…then why was everyone summoned?” He murmurs, keeping his head low.

Jun Wu reaches into his sleeve.

The dagger is still there, weighing heavily against his skin. He grasps the handle for a moment, contemplative—then explains.

“During the night—somewhere deep in the Eastern Mountains, witnesses saw a dragon made of flames rush into the sky, remaining for two incense times.”

Xie Lian listens carefully, his chin tilted back as the emperor continues;

“Despite the size and force of the dragon’s appearance, no mortals were harmed. Does that sound familiar to you?”

Of course it does—and it’s far more worrisome than what the prince would have expected.

“…It’s a Heavenly Spell,” Xie Lian mutters, scraping through his memories. A costly one. Not the sort of thing that a person would use if they had another choice. “A distress signal to be sent out as a last resort. Using it probably killed the official in question.”

Jun Wu nods in confirmation, “Correct. I summoned all of you back here to check and see which officials were able to return, but…”

He frowns, his eyebrows knitting together. “Other than those who normally wouldn’t answer such a summons to begin with, everyone has reported in.”

Which makes the situation even more puzzling. After all—only a Heavenly Official could have used that spell. But if everyone has been accounted for…

“Could it have been someone retired?” Xie Lian questions, “Or in exile?’

“If that’s the case, it’ll be a difficult search.”

Most retired Heavenly Officials (of which there aren’t very many remaining) eventually lose contact with the Heavens, choosing to live private lives.

“…For someone to force an official to use that spell, they must have been powerful,” Xie Lian admits with a frown.

A savage ghost at the very least—but far beyond the power of that of Ke Mo or Banyue. And if not one of them, then…

A Calamity.

Xie Lian’s stomach sinks, remembering the fact that, given when this occurred, and how Hua Cheng left sometime during the night…it seems…

Still, it couldn’t have been him.

Regardless of whether or not circumstances forbid it—Shi Wudu made a rather salient point, back in the Grand Martial Hall.

Hua Cheng hasn’t hidden his conflicts with the Heavens before. If this was him—he would have publicly taken credit.

But even still—whoever did this—they must be a ghost of considerable strength.

“…is there a place where evil forces gather?” The prince questions thoughtfully. “That might be the best place to start.”

Jun Wu glances back at him, eyes flashing slightly.

“…There is,”

The emperor replies, “and it’s rather close.”

Under the pale golden light filtering in through the window, small moving reflections cast from the surface of the koi pond outside—his eyes gleam a particular shade of silver.

“Have you ever heard of a place called Ghost City?”

Xie Lian falls silent for a moment, thinking.

“…I have.”

The bridge between this life and the next, but a real, physical place. A prosperous gathering place for ghosts. A haven, or a house of horrors—all depending on who you ask.

Xie Lian has heard stories of lost travelers happening upon the place, thinking they’ve found a trading post to linger for the night, only to find the food served inedible, or their hosts wearing macabre masks.

But there are other stories, always given from children.

That if you follow red lanterns in the night, you’ll find safety on the other end of the road.

It almost makes him think of…

“I sent several officials to investigate the area after the spell was cast,” Jun Wu murmurs, “but by the time they arrived, the culprit had fled.”

“It’s likely that—seeing the officials coming—the creature was hidden within the walls of Ghost City. In order to get to the bottom of this, I’ll need to send someone covertly to search for clues.”

“…” The Prince bows his head, clasping his hands in front of him.

“Please,” he murmurs, “Give Xianle the order.”

Jun Wu doesn’t speak at first, watching the Prince of Xianle bow with a satisfied expression. And when he does respond—his voice is filled with polite concern.

“You were the first person I thought to ask,” the emperor admits.

“But this would place you in an awkward position.”

Xie Lian glances up, hands still clasped before him, “…Why?”

After all, wasn’t that why Jun Wu took him aside to begin with?

“Because,” the emperor’s tone turns delicate, but it still leaves him startled.

“The east is ruled by Lang Qianqiu. You would need to coordinate with him.”

Xie Lian doesn’t react immediately, hands unmoving, his expression smooth.

Does Jun Wu…

The prince’s stomach roils, chest stinging from the aching memory of a stake.

…Does he know about that?

It’s not exactly shame that makes him feel so startled, no. Xie Lian knows that he would do the same thing now, if given that choice all over again.

It’s the fact that—

He prayed to Jun Wu back then, desperate and frightened—just as he had so many times before, and he didn’t…

“…Please don’t worry,” Xie Lian’s reply is delayed, but his voice is calm. “That isn’t a problem at all.”

After all—Lang Qianqiu doesn’t know who he is, and Xie Lian has no intention of harming the boy even more by forcing him to live with the truth.

That would be cruel.

“…That isn’t the only problem,” Jun Wu murmurs, shaking his head. “Do you know who rules the territory of Ghost City?”

Suddenly, he remembers what Jun Wu said in the beginning of this conversation—

“…It’s Hua Cheng, isn’t it?”

Jun Wu’s silence is answer enough.

“The two of you have a good relationship,” The emperor sighs. “I know that you don’t say that you have a high opinion of someone lightly. If this is too awkward for you—”

Given how much Jun Wu has been willing to overlook for him—does Xie Lian even have a right to feel awkward?

“It’s alright,” the prince mutters, shaking his head.

He bites his lip, raising his fingertips to his chin.

The fingers that gripped him the night before were cold, but his wrist still burns.

‘I swear—you won’t find anyone on heaven and earth that is more sincere than me.’

Xie Lian saw a what happened out there, in the Grand Martial Hall. How willing people were to throw Hua Cheng under suspicion with the slightest provocation, and little to no evidence.

If Xie Lian allows someone else to look into this matter…

Would they just ignore the facts and blame him anyway? If they did, the prince doesn’t doubt Hua Cheng could protect himself, but…he won’t have to, not if the prince makes sure the job is done fairly.

“I wish to investigate the matter personally.”

“…I see.”

Xie Lian can hear that Jun Wu sounds pleased—but what he cannot see, in that moment, is the vicious twist of his smile, eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he asks—

“Are there any officials you would like to see assigned to the mission with you?”

Given the nature of the case…

“…Someone easy to get along with,” Xie Lian mutters. “And I might need to borrow spiritual power—so someone powerful would be preferable.”

Jun Wu thinks that over. “I suppose that eliminates Nan Yang and Xuan Zhen as options, then.”

The prince laughs, surprised.

“…I suppose so,” he admits.

In any case, given the clear bias the two have against Hua Cheng—Xie Lian wouldn’t have requested their presence on this mission anyway.

“Have the three of you had a chance to speak?”

“…A little,” Xie Lian shrugs.

Jun Wu quirks an eyebrow. “After eight centuries of no contact, you really have spoken so little? Come, now.”

There’s a slightly critical tone to his voice, and Xie Lian dips his chin, about to explain, when—

“When you were banished a second time, I did ask you to check in.”

Xie Lian pauses, confused. “I…”

Didn’t he, though? He—

He prayed to Jun Wu. Desperately. Countless times over that century, clawing against the dark. Did he—?

“But you chose to roll around in the dirt instead,” Jun Wu sighs, somewhat exasperated.

…Did he really not hear?

That’s the only explanation that makes sense, but—Xie Lian—

He swallows dryly, struggling to discern whether or not he’s just…remembering it incorrectly?

After all, it was three hundred years ago, and he…wasn’t in a clear mental state. It felt like someone heard him, but…

Jun Wu doesn’t have a reason to be dishonest about it, and he…

There are other explanations, of course. The shackles. Xie Lian’s own…emotional frailties at that time. Could he have even prayed coherently back then? What was he thinking, expecting anyone to be able to hear?

He bows his head again, taking a moment to collect himself, not wanting his voice to come out hoarse. “I apologize, my lord. Xianle was…”

He inhales slowly, evenly, eyes closed.

Not allowing himself to remember more than he has to, shutting those memories away.

“…Stubborn.”

“No need to apologize,” Jun Wu shakes his head. “And I suppose it makes sense that the three of you haven’t had the chance to speak, given the destruction when you arrived again…”

Xie Lian blanches slightly at the reminder, scratching his nose awkwardly. “Yes, well…”

“I paid them back already, so…Oh,” he blinks, “I never got the chance to thank you for assigning me to the Mount Yu Jun case. Otherwise, I never would have been able to make up for the merits…”

Jun Wu tilts his head, raising an eyebrow.

“Don’t thank me—thank Nan Yang.”

Xie Lian pauses, his own brows raising with confusion.

“Feng Xin? What does this have to do with him?”

“…He asked Ling Wen not to tell you,” Jun Wu warns, “but he was the one who asked her to waive the costs for reconstructing his palace.”

The prince stops following, startled

“He…really did that?” Xie Lian whispers, biting his lip once more.

The conversation has gradually left him feeling more and more off kilter, but that…remembering the last thing he said to Feng Xin, before all of this…

‘Then don’t follow me anymore.’

“Privately, but yes.”

And with the intention that Xie Lian would never know, which makes the prince feel guilty hearing it now, even if Jun Wu’s intentions were good, but…

There’s no statement in the world more useless than asking—

‘Don’t tell anyone.’

Xie Lian learned that the hard way.

“In any case,” Jun Wu continues, easily breezing through the topics, even as he watches the building distress in the set of Xie Lian’s expression, “if Xuan Zhen and Nan Yang won’t work—the Wind Master would be an excellent option.”

Xie Lian snaps out of it then, surprised.

“Really? She would want to help me again so soon?”

After all—she certainly went out of her way in the Crescent Moon Pass situation, and Xie Lian already put her through enough trouble with Pei Xiu and Banyue…

“You made a good first impression,” the emperor shrugs.

“Besides—as an elemental master, the Wind Master is strong, and well known for having a friendly personality. That should fulfill both of your requirements, yes?”

Xie Lian nods with a small smile, pleased to find that…well…any heavenly official has a good impression of him.

“If that’s all, then you’re can go on to the Palace of Xianle, and I’ll send the Wind Master to you, you remember where it is I’m assuming?”

“Ah…” the prince smiles awkwardly. “Before it was torn down, yes. But I’m afraid I don’t have the merits to rebuild…”

“Nonsense.”

Jun Wu turns around, placing a hand on the small of Xie Lian’s back—startling the god as he guides him to walk back towards the grand marital hall.

“You can’t be expected to cram into that small shrine all the time. I granted you another.”

Xie Lian can’t imagine he’ll get much use out of it, but…

It was kind of Jun Wu to make such a gesture, nonetheless. He won’t insult the emperor by refusing it.

“Thank you, my lord…” Xie Lian replies—and then he stops, standing just outside the doors to the grand hall.

Jun Wu watches him curiously, and after a moment of waiting, he asks—

“Is something wrong, Xianle?”

Xie Lian fiddles with his fingers inside of his sleeves for a moment, debating whether or not he should, but…

“I was just…confused about something.”

Jun Wu stops behind him.

That hand is still on his back—and just like before, the emperor’s touch weighs heavily on him. Like a painful reminder of something, but Xie Lian has no idea what.

“What is it?”

The younger god swallows dryly.

“I just…when my first banishment ended…”

He almost considers not saying anything. After all, there must be a reason for it, but…

The question is already halfway out of his mouth, and Jun Wu is watching, expectant.

“…My shackle was released,” Xie Lian mumbles, finishing the sentence. “But this time…it wasn’t.”

At first, he thought maybe it was because of the chaos following his third ascension, or maybe the property damage.

The first time his shackle shattered, Jun Wu was present—and this time, Xie Lian hadn’t had the chance to see him until, well…now.

“And you’re wondering why?”

Xie Lian can’t bring himself to answer directly. Just like how he couldn’t bring himself to ask for the shackles to be removed outright.

Instead, he just waits, keeping his chin low, feeling the weight of Jun Wu’s gaze against the back of his head.

“…Xianle,” Jun Wu sighs, sounding…

Xie Lian’s stomach sinks sharply, his chest tightening.

“I’m not the one with the answer to that question.”

…Disappointed, despite the fact that he hasn’t accused the prince of doing something wrong.

Xie Lian swallows hard.

“I don’t…” He starts—then stops, startled by how small his own voice sounds. How unsure.

And there’s that overwhelming desire again. To seem strong. Grown up. Not like the child that he used to be.

Because Xie Lian isn’t a child anymore, and he doesn’t deserve pity.

He clears his throat, takes a deep breath, and when he speaks again—he’s calm. Poised. Trying not to be—

Disappointing.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t understand what that means,” he murmurs, not lifting his head.

It’s quiet, the silence only broken by the occasional breeze.

“Let me ask you this,” the emperor sighs, dropping his hand from Xie Lian’s back—but his presence still looms behind the prince. Unintentionally smothering, but it leaves him feeling almost claustrophobic.

“Do you think that you no longer deserve them?”

Xie Lian grows still.

‘Deserve’ is a complicated question. One that has, in one way or another, always haunted him.

When Xie Lian was a child, he thought he deserved quite a few things. After all, he had been raised to believe that they were his birthright.

Back then, the world was simple by nature.

If he did a good thing, he was rewarded. If he did something wrong, he was punished. But—

Back then, when his parents would send him to his rooms after throwing a fit, or when he wouldn’t be allowed to play outside if he became cross with his tutors…

That was about learning.

About things like patience, self awareness, and consequences. And when he got older, and his mistakes became more serious—so did the punishments.

But Jun Wu—he didn’t say, ‘Do you think you still need the shackles?’

He wasn’t asking if the lesson had been learned.

(And it has. It was learned the moment Xie Lian lost Wu Ming, watching as that blank, smiling mask disappeared behind a cloud of smoke.)

He asked if Xie Lian still /deserved/ them.

“You were the one who asked for them, after all.” The emperor reminds him quietly.

“If you tell me that you want them removed, that’s all it will take.”

And if Jun Wu had opened the conversation that way, Xie Lian might have been able to ask for that. Maybe with some difficulty or anxiety, but now…

‘Do you think that you no longer deserve them?’

Xie Lian might be capable of moments of shamelessness, asking for things he knows he doesn’t deserve, but—

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, his voice hoarse.

He can’t lie. Not to Jun Wu.

“Let’s forget that I mentioned it.”

In the end…

Xie Lian knows that he’ll always deserve them.

Because no matter how many times he learns his lesson, the damage has already been done. The scars are already carved deep into his soul. There’s no undoing it now.

And when a man is willing to accept so much blame—there’s no punishment he won’t endure.

But blame is a complicated beast. A dagger that can be turned inward, or hurled out towards one’s enemies with blind abandon.

To blame someone, something, yourself or someone else—it’s an action that lays on the knife’s edge between rage and guilt.

Xie Lian lives there.

But the same cannot be said for others.

For some, blame is a sharpened, angry thing. A tool to be used against one’s enemies.

However, more often than not—it rarely hits the intended target.

The walls are rattling.

The floor, too, stones quivering under the ghost’s feet.

They’ve never had to use this room before.

It’s cold, damp, craggy, characters burning red against the stone walls in the dim lighting.

A powerful array, meant for one purpose:

To seal something in. Someone, in this case.

And the rattling, well—

That’s from the roaring.

A figure sags, each hand chained to the wall over his head, dark hair hanging in front of his face. His chest and shoulders heave from ragged, enraged breaths.

Another ghost sits against the opposite wall, knees pulled against their chest.

They shift slightly, the heels of their boots scraping against the floor—and golden eyes snap up in their direction, burning in the dark with an outright feral sort of rage.

“You…” He Xuan snarls, the muscles in his arms straining as he pulls at the chains around his wrists.

“What the HELL did you do?!”

Ren Song’s arms tighten around his knees, his mouth pressed against them, eyes peering out silently.

The water demon has been raging at him for the better part of an hour, ever since Hua Chengzhu dragged him here by the hair, locking him in.

Generally, Crimson Rain Sought Flower and Black Water Sinking Ships are reluctant allies. Each stays within their own sphere of influence, and boundaries are rarely crossed.

Well. Until now.

“Don’t blame him,” Hua Cheng’s voice is barely more than a hiss.

“He’s the only reason Ming Yi didn’t stumble into the Heavenly Capital while you were in the middle of…”

Well, he doesn’t exactly have to say it out loud—but they both know what He Xuan was doing.

He Xuan’s stare is venomous.

“I had it all UNDER CONTROL!”

He snarls, thrashing at the chains once more, iron digging into his wrists and throat, but it never breaks—after all, they were forged by a Ghost King.

Hua Cheng barks out a laugh—cold, sharp with frustration.

“You think THAT was control?!”

Blackwater bares his teeth, pupils narrowing as his struggles more violently. “I didn’t ASK the brat to help me!”

/CRACK!/

The slap rings through the chamber, Hua Cheng’s nails leaving two long, deep scratches in He Xuan’s cheek.

His fingers twist into the water demon’s hair, yanking until he’s forced to look up at Crimson Rain, his face a mess of cuts and bruises.

Ren Song watches as the ghost king’s bare their fangs to one another, snarling—like two predators caught in a duel to the death.

“You have lost focus,” Hua Cheng would say he’s always extended patience to He Xuan. More than he has to most. But now, he growls—one solitary eye gleaming down at him in the dark. “Along with any sense of priorities—”

“This IS my priority!”

The water demon tries to lunge forward, only to get slammed back against the wall, stones fracturing under his skull from the force of it.

“This has ALWAYS been my priority!”

“And what about ending up balls deep inside the Wind Master?” Hua Cheng questions flatly.

Hua Cheng has moments of crassness—but he chooses them with intent.

Now, he does it with the express intention of watching fury broil inside He Xuan’s gaze.

“Was that part of the plan? Or did you just trip?”

Blackwater’s claws slice into his palms, blood pouring down.

“Don’t bring him into this.” The water demon hisses, and Crimson Rain’s laugh returns once again—even sharper now, filled with bitterness.

“Well, now isn’t that hypocritical? Aren’t you the one who dragged him into the center of it all?”

He Xuan shakes his head vehemently, hair whipping around him as he does.

It’s been a long time since either of them—since anyone—has seen the Water Demon’s true form. Far larger, far more imposing than the earth master’s skin.

“His BROTHER did that, not me!”

Hua Cheng glares into those eyes, dark and endless, filled with a bottomless pit of rage.

Crimson Rain Sought Flower understands that kind of fury. Feels it every time he remembers pained screams. His god, begging for death.

A sneering smirk.

‘Your story could have been so boring…but look at you now.’

That rage pushed him forward. Forged him through fire into something stronger. Something more hateful.

But the rage in Blackwater’s eyes isn’t something that fuels him. Not anymore.

It’s consuming him.

Like a dying star, on the edge of collapse.

“…Have you ever considered what’s left of you, after?” Hua Cheng’s voice still crackles with rage, but the words on their own aren’t hateful.

They ring with concern, voice from a man who has always claimed not to care.

And in the end, if He Xuan is set on becoming that sort of creature, Hua Cheng isn’t sure that he does care. Not beyond the fact that he needs the Water Demon for his own ends.

“What does that mean?!”

The ghost king snarls, repeatedly trying to shift forms, but the chains around his wrists and throat snap him back into place—and it’s fruitless.

They’re in Hua Cheng’s territory, and his power within this space is absolute.

“When your enemies are dead, and there is no one else left to blame,” Crimson Rain’s fingers are still knotted tight in his hair, forcing He Xuan to meet his gaze—even if he doesn’t want to.

“What’s left of you, He Sheng?”

“…” Amber eyes glimmer back at him hatefully.

“You don’t get to call me that,” he whispers, clawed fingertips trembling with rage.

“My mother gave me that name.”

Ren Song shrinks further back against the wall, watching as the only authority figures he’s ever known rip at one another, all snarled words and sharp teeth.

“You don’t…” He Xuan’s words are shattering, aching with a pain that runs deep, warping and twisting into hate as they plummet from his lips, like rain turning to hail before it comes crashing down.

“You don’t get to ask for mercy for her murderer…and then CALL ME THAT NAME!”

The roar of it is so loud, the stone walls of the room shudder once more.

“I didn’t ask for mercy,” Hua Cheng glares, letting him go as he takes a step back. “But that boy didn’t hurt your family, Blackwater. You know that.”

The Water Demon hangs his head, shoulders trembling.

Maybe not.

“That doesn’t matter.”

After all—his bastard of a brother didn’t care about that when he destroyed so many other lives. He only cared about saving one.

A-Zhong, Qin Meirong, his parents, He Xuan himself…

They were all just an unintended consequence.

And in the end, it only makes sense.

He and Shi Qingxuan have always been two overlapping creatures, ever since the beginning.

Sharing birthdays, fates, a name.

It makes sense, now, that they would both become collateral damage.

And Hua Cheng could ask him the obvious: why not just kill the Water Master, and leave the matter at that.

Because simply dying isn’t particularly painful. They’ve both been through that.

It’s having something you love taken from you that hurts far, far more.

“Oh, but it does.” Hua Cheng sighs heavily, anger and exhaustion warring inside of him, the emotions tugging at him so viciously, he feels half pulled apart.

“You speak like I don’t know you.”

But he does.

They’ve both seen all there is to see of one another.

Every single memory of the beginning of their lives has been shared. The pain, the loss, each injustice.

And as such, Hua Cheng knows He Xuan’s greatest secret.

“Like I don’t know exactly why you took the Wind Master into your bed.”

It wasn’t out of hatred. Or vengeance.

It was a mistake.

A very selfish, very human mistake. One that he can’t take back now—

And one that he’ll regret.

Because he’s—

“…Shut up,” He Xuan whispers, his voice trembling, unable to lift his head.

“Shut up.”

His heart died long ago, and still—aches.

‘You’re a…good man, H-He Xuan…’

“SHUT UP!” He screams, covering his face with his hands, claws ripping into his flesh.

He isn’t. He wasn’t. He never was—

Green eyes flash before his eyes. Laughing, full of life, warmth, and hope.

All of the things that He Xuan cannot be.

Everything that was stolen from him.

He Sheng was a weak man. And he lost everything.

He Xuan isn’t a good man. He’s hateful, vindictive, and vengeful.

He’s become something monstrous, and he knows it.

But it’s so much better than being helpless.

“Stop acting like you’re BETTER!” He Xuan screams, wrists bleeding from how hard he thrashes against his bonds. “AT LEAST I ACCEPT WHAT I AM!”

After all, they’re both soaked in blood.

Love might seem like a better justification for violence—

But Hua Cheng is a killer himself.

“…” Crimson Rain kneels down in front of him, staring He Xuan down, his rage fading from a burning fire, down into something dark and cold.

“I know exactly what I am,” the eldest ghost king replies evenly, one eye gleaming back into his. “And that I’m far worse than you.”

Hua Cheng used to be an expert in the concept of self pity.

He was born into a world that despised him. Viewed him as a warped, twisted thing. The only exception being his mother.

And the world, being the cruel, twisted, stupid thing that it is—

It tore her apart.

That memory is buried deep, deep inside. So far down, even Zhao Beitong never said a word of it, when she saw. And when He Xuan witnessed it—he endeavored to forget.

Hua Cheng doesn’t have such a luxury. His memory is long, and he rarely forgets a single moment.

And god, it made him hate the world.

Made him despise every beautiful thing. Every act of kindness. Because it always felt like a lie.

He wanted to destroy everything, and everyone. Then, to destroy himself.

Xie Lian didn’t make that hatred disappear, it’s still there.

But—

‘If you can’t find a meaning in life, allow me to be that meaning.’

Worshipping his god, loving him—it was so much better than having nothing. Than loathing the world for what it had taken from him.

And—

‘This world is his future.’

Hua Cheng knows. And if he hadn’t accepted that, there would still be so many things about himself that he wouldn’t know.

That he likes drinking. How satisfying it can be, learning something new. How fiercely he enjoys a good fight. That sunsets are beautiful. And…

His eyes flicker back, watching Shuo’s small, uncharacteristically meek form, shrunk against the far wall—like a stray cat, watching two dogs tear one another apart in a back alley.

He wouldn’t have learned that gamblers, even the unlucky ones, can be steadfast friends.

How fast children can grow, when you aren’t paying attention.

And that, while nothing could ever come close to what he feels for his god—Hua Cheng isn’t incapable of caring about others, or forming attachments.

He simply never learned that lesson until he lost them.

But He Xuan isn’t wrong.

Hua Cheng is a human. A man who loves fiercely, and lives selfishly.

But Hua Cheng is also Crimson Rain Sought Flower. The bane of the Heavens. A ghost king.

And he is a monster, he knows that well.

He’s slaughtered countless, over the centuries.

In some cases, for something so minor as merely insulting the love of his life.

He doesn’t regret that.

When he looks up at He Xuan now, though—he sees a man torn between those two sides.

The man and the monster, unable to resolve one to the other.

“I know exactly what I am,” Hua Cheng repeats his words, watching redness gather at the corners of He Xuan’s eyes.

Calamities, in their true forms—they don’t shed human tears. Their sins are far too great for that.

Their tears are the blood that they have spilled.

They run in two crimson lines down He Xuan’s cheeks, dripping down his cheeks.

“But unlike you,” Hua Cheng rises to his feet, “I know what my priorities are.”

And there’s the very real fear that—by the time Blackwater begins to see his desires clearly—

It will be too late.

He turns away, looking to Shuo, “Stay long enough to make sure he doesn’t rip his own throat out. If something else comes up—contact me.”

The savage ghost nods, not saying a word as he watches Blackwater struggle.

“I don’t warrant any more of your time?!” The water demon sneers

Hua Cheng pulls a set of dice out of his pocket, rattling them against his palm.

/Clack!/

/Clack!/

“I have to go and make sure Shuo isn’t hunted down like a dog for cleaning up your mess,” Crimson Rain replies coldly. “So no, you don’t.”

The door opens—and then, he’s gone.

Ren Song watches him go, eyes carefully blank before they return to Blackwater once more.

“…” He Xuan sinks down, arms bound above his head, glaring at the other ghost vengefully. “I didn’t ask for your help.”

Their positions almost mirror one another now.

“I know.”

Ren Song’s cheek presses against his knee, lingering baby fat smushing slightly, making him look young.

So, so young.

“Then why did you?”

His arms tighten around his knees.

“I tried to get you to deal with it, but you didn’t answer.” He mutters.

“…and how did you know Ming Yi escaped?”

“You think gege feeds your weird little pets himself?” Ren Song questions dryly. “I do. And when I got there, he was already halfway back to the Heavens.”

He Xuan grimaces.

“Why do you call him that?”

“…Call who what?”

“He’s not your brother.”

He Xuan mutters the words carelessly, uncaring—only realizing what a painful reminder they are when he sees Ren Song’s eyes go wide.

Still, he doesn’t take them back.

“You think he gives a shit about you? About me?” The water demon rolls his eyes.

“He saved my life because I made myself useful.” He Xuan watches him, looking for some sort of reaction. “I’m sure he keeps you around for the same reason. The only one he cares about is—”

“Xie Lian.” Ren Song cuts him off, his voice calm.

Blackwater’s eyes widen, surprised.

“I know.” Even if he looks young now, there’s a gravity to him. Something that only comes with hard learned lessons.

“I know my place, and I don’t care.”

It baffles He Xuan, because Shuo…he’s disobedient, mischievous, and stubborn.

But not with Hua Cheng. Never him.

He Xuan is quite sure that, If it ever became necessary—Shuo would die for Crimson Rain without hesitation.

He already took that risk today, for He Xuan.

And he doesn’t understand. It—

Why stick his neck out for them? It doesn’t make sense. It’s pathetic.

“Do you really?”

Blackwater glares, his throat feeling tight whenever he looks at the boy. Loathing that loyalty. Hating the way it hurts.

Remembering what happens to younger siblings who idolize their brothers. Where it leaves them in the end.

He’s just relieved that Ren Song isn’t wearing their female form anymore.

When she does, she looks too much like A-Zhong, and it makes him feel sick.

“Because sometimes, it’s like you think we’re a happy little family,” The calamity sneers. “Don’t be naive, kid.”

Ren Song finally lifts his head, staring He Xuan down with that uneven, multicolored gaze of his.

“I’m four centuries older than you,” The ghost reminds him flatly. “At the moment, you’re the one who seems like a child to me.”

It’s easy to forget, most of the time.

After all—Shuo never got the chance to grow up. That was stolen from him. Along with so many other things.

Technically, he’s not much younger than Hua Cheng.

Technically, he’s ancient.

But in many ways, he can’t grow as much as he wants to.

He’s been in love before, but never been loved back. Never known what it was like to grow old.

He’ll never have a wife, or a husband. Never have a family of his own.

He tries, and he tries, and he tries, but it’s everyone else who moves on.

It’s never him. He’s still here.

“…You don’t know how I died, do you?” Shuo questions softly, watching He Xuan with a tired expression. “It’s not like you ever bothered to ask.”

And maybe he doesn’t particularly care to know now, but…

It’s not like he’s going anywhere, anyway.

“I was born at the end of the war,” Shuo explains, “everyone always talked about what it was like before. My dad fought in it, and he—”

The ghost smiles, bitter—but the reason is subversive.

“He used to talk about what an honor it was, to fight for the crown prince of Xianle.”

Shuo can’t remember a time when the prince wasn’t tainted, but oh—his parents used to look back with such an ache. Remembering what their lives were like before.

“I was the youngest of six. Five big brothers,” the ghost mutters, tracing imaginary patterns in the air.

“Two of them died in the war, I don’t remember them. But Bao—he was only a couple of years older, and we were always together.”

And most boys that age—that get annoyed, always having to look after a younger sibling.

But never Bao. He took being a big brother so seriously.

Always made Shuo hold his hand, when they went to the market. A boy wouldn’t stop pulling at his hair once, and he broke his nose.

“But most people didn’t die in the war, they never do.”

He Xuan’s expression turns grim.

“…It was human face disease, wasn’t it?”

Ren Song’s fingers pause in the air, long, manicured nails gleaming in the candle light, painted black.

“…It killed my mother,” he agrees. “And all of my brothers. It killed Bao, too.”

But there’s one person left off of that list.

And He Xuan—he’s reluctantly curious.

“…But not you?”

Ren Song curls his fingers in, nails biting against his palm.

“I was the only child in my village who didn’t catch it,” he murmurs, his eyes far away. “I have no idea why.”

None of the adult men caught it—but nearly all of the women and children did.

“But my father—he was furious.”

Ren Song remembers, day in and day out. Watching as the man who raised him, who claimed to love him unconditionally, began to watch him with resentment.

“He lost his wife. Five sons. All he had left was me.”

And Shuo was the least valuable.

“That’s better than nothing.” He Xuan mutters, irritated with that reasoning—

“Not when you’re a girl.”

The water demon stiffens with surprise, and Shuo smiles tiredly.

It’s not exactly something he advertises. Hua Cheng is the only one left who knows.

“I wasn’t born like this.”

He spent his entire human life desperate to be someone else. Wishing his body was different. And back then, he thought it was because his father never wanted a daughter.

But then he died, and his spirit came back…

In a way that felt right.

Bao recognized him—and given the fact that they were dead, trapped in a battlefield of ghosts, and being hunted by a demented psychopath that hung spirits from trees, well—

Shuo’s gender was the least confusing part, and he accepted it.

He Xuan is surprised, but not baffled.

That happens sometimes, with ghosts. The shell of a soul doesn’t always match it’s character—but in death, such barriers drop away.

He’s had ample reason to suspect that Shi Qingxuan is the same way, even if he’s never said so explicitly.

“…The day Bao died,” Shuo continues, his tone even, “It was just me and my father. It was so quiet, and the house felt so lonely.”

So empty.

“But he told me I should sleep,” he murmurs. “And that everything would be better in the morning. I believed him.”

Because he was his father, and he was all Shuo had left.

“…But I never woke up.”

He Xuan stays quiet now, taking that in.

Ren Song reaches for the collar of his robes, unclasping them, pulling them aside to reveal his chest.

There’s just one scar there, over his heart.

He can erase every imperfection on his body if he wants to—but he can’t hide the blow that killed him.

He Xuan’s eyes linger there, the emotions…complex.

The ghost pulls his collar back up, snapping the clasps back into place.

“All because you were a girl?”

Ren Song shrugs, “I was a mouth to feed. And he wanted to start over.”

He never told Bao. His older brother saw the scar one day, figuring it out for himself.

“…And he did,” he concludes, his tone bitter. “We went back to find him later. He was already dead by then, but…”

His lips quirk up into a tired, heart sick little smile.

“He married again. Had three more sons. Died of old age. And when he died…”

Finally, there’s a small tremble in his voice.

“He got to Rest In Peace.”

There was no ghost. No lingering spirit to take vengeance on.

And that hurt the most. Because Shuo—he knew his father didn’t love him that much. Knew that he was the last one his father would have chosen to survive, but—

He at least thought the man would have felt guilty enough to linger on.

But he didn’t care enough to feel remorse

Of course, Shuo was a stronger spirit than Yanlin and Bao.

Because he started his life feeling so hurt, so angry, and so worthless.

“So, if you’re trying to tell me someone I care about doesn’t give a shit about me,” Shuo smiles, his voice wobbly. “I’m pretty used to it.”

And it’s not that he thinks Hua Cheng doesn’t care at all, Shuo knows that there’s some degree of attachment there. He couldn’t get away with so much otherwise, but…

He Xuan wasn’t wrong either.

Shuo is useful.

Useful enough to keep around, sure.

But the moment Bao’s spirit dispersed, Shuo knew he was alone. That he would never be someone’s priority again, and whatever existence he had left…

He would always be the second choice. A pawn, maybe.

And that’s fine. He’s made his peace with it, even if it aches.

He found other things to live for.

“…and he was right, you know.”

He Xuan stares at Ren Song, feeling that twisting, jarring pain rattling through his chest.

Now, it’s so hard not to look at him and see A-Zhong.

And he doesn’t want to think about her.

Doesn’t want to contemplate what she would think, if she saw what he was doing now.

“Right about what?”

“Asking what will be left of you, when it’s finished.” Ren Song mutters, rising to his feet. “Didn’t you ever wonder why I haven’t dispersed Qi Rong?”

He has wondered.

After all, it’s not a question of ability. Ren Song is far more powerful than he seems, and Qi Rong’s bark is far worse than his bite.

“I always assumed you thought torture was worse than death.”

“Maybe.” The savage ghost agrees.

“But it’s also because I don’t have anything else,” he admits quietly.

And if he did disperse Qi Rong, there’s a very good chance that Shuo wouldn’t have enough resentment, enough purpose left to carry on. That he might disappear.

“…and he already killed my brother,” Shuo concludes, looking He Xuan over with a mixture of emotions. “He doesn’t get to kill me, too.”

Before, he thought keeping Hua Cheng company might be reason enough, but…

He’s found his god now, he doesn’t need that anymore.

No one needs him. He’s nobody’s first choice. And—

Qi Rong might be a shitty thing to keep him going, but he hasn’t found something better. Not yet.

He lifts the dice out of his pocket, and before he rolls them, He Xuan repeats his question from the beginning:

“Why did you try to help me?”

Ren Song stops, dice clutched in his hand, glancing back over his shoulder.

“…Because if you got caught, the emperor might have dispersed you then and there,” he mutters, like it’s obvious.

“So?” Blackwater mutters, hanging his head.

“Why does that matter to you?”

Ren Song stares, knuckles white, briefly biting his lip—and then he sighs.

“…Because I would miss you,” he admits, watching as the water demon’s eyes widen with shock.

“Family or not, naive or not—if you were gone, I’d be sad.”

He Xuan doesn’t respond—doesn’t know what to say—and Shuo doesn’t give him the chance, rattling his dice.

/Clack!/

/Clack!/

He steps through the door, leaving behind the darkness of He Xuan’s cell for the red, over saturated light of Paradise Manor.

It’s quiet.

“…” He kneels down in the hallway, alone, his head clutched between his hands.

‘Why do you call him that?’

He knows.

‘You think he cares?’

He knows, he knows, he knows.

But it’s lonely, and it hurts, filling him up with an ache that he’d rather leave as a void.

He’d rather feel nothing, than feel so worthless.

When Yin Yu rounds the corner, he sees a small figure kneeling alone on the floor, arms wrapped around their head, shoulders trembling.

And he sighs, because he thought his babysitting days were done, but…

Big eyes stare up at him, one green like the leaves in the trees, the other burning like a forest fire, lips wobbling.

Shuo holds his arms up, expectant—and the Ghost Officer sighs, lifting him up in his arms.

“Tired?”

He leans his head against Yin Yu’s shoulder, and he nods.

There are moments when Shuo wants to grow up so badly—but others when he just…

Wants to feel safe again.

Yin Yu looks after him with a grim sense of obligation, so it isn’t ideal, but—

He reads the stories, and he does the voices.

Sometimes, that’s enough.

When Xie Lian first returned to the heavens—he thought the crowds made him feel out of place. That the bright, overbearing light all around was what made him feel so uncomfortable.

But all of that pales in comparison to standing in front of his own palace.

It hardly suits him.

Xie Lian doesn’t need to see the red glass walls to know that it’s exactly was it was before—and while that was very well and good for a prince, it…

Feels far more like someone else’s residence than his own. He’d feel like a joke, sitting alone in a large, elegant palace.

Instead of going in to wait, as Jun Wu suggested—he finds himself loitering outside, twiddling his thumbs, wishing he could have just waited in the grand martial palace. Or better yet, he could have descended down to his shrine and awaited the Wind Master there.

Really, that would have been better than—

“Your highness!” A voice calls out pleasantly—and Xie Lian can hear the sounds of boots clicking sharply against the pavement as someone hurries over.

The prince recognizes him immediately as the young god who spoke in his defense.

Shi Qingxuan, wasn’t it?

Xie Lian smiles warmly, bowing his head in greeting. “Hello,” he murmurs, relieved that, if he has to bump into another official right now—at least it’s someone pleasant.

The younger god comes to a stop beside him, catching his breath.

“I’m sorry, I had some business to attend to,” he looks up with a quick smile, chestnut curls bouncing around his shoulders. “Ready to go?”

“I’m…” Xie Lian pauses, eyebrows knitting with confusion. “I’m sorry, but I’m waiting for someone.”

“Oh? Who?”

“The Wind Master,” he explains politely, “the emperor has placed us on an assignment together.”

“But…” Shi Qingxuan blinks, confused. “I am the Wind Master!”

Xie Lian stares back at the other god blindly, just as confused as he is. “I…what?”

“Don’t you recognize me?”

“Um…” Xie Lian tilts his head, trying to decide whether or not he’s being teased, and Shi Qingxuan’s eyes widen apologetically.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, I guess my voice is too different, I didn’t realize!”

But now that Xie Lian is paying attention…the is rather familiar.

The aura around him is a bright, inviting shade of green, fluttering at the edges, like leaves in the wind…

“Oh,” the prince concludes, trying not to be rude. “But before…was there a reason for—?”

“Me appearing as a woman?” The Wind Master finishes for him.

Xie Lian manages an awkward nod, and Shi Qingxuan responds with an easygoing smile.

“Did I sound cute?”

“…” Xie Lian scratches his ear, slightly off kilter due to the topic. “I suppose you did.”

“Well, I looked cute too, take my word for it!” He beams.

“Do I need another reason?”

Xie Lian never thought of it that way before. But there doesn’t seem to be any harm in it—and is it really so different from Hua Cheng changing skins?

“No, I suppose you don’t,” he agrees.

It’s the easiest acceptance Shi Qingxuan has ever received.

His eyes brighten and his smile widens as he reaches for Xie Lian’s arm, grasping his hand firmly. “Let’s get going then!”

He drags Xie Lian towards the gates of the heavenly capital, the older god stumbling in tow.

“I—ah, hold on—!”

Xie Lian protests weakly, a little sheepish to admit it, but—

“I don’t have the best luck with descending, you might want to stand clear—!”

Shi Qingxuan laughs brightly, still holding onto his hand.

“Don’t worry your highness, I’ve got it!“

“I don’t think..!”

“Just get a running head start,” The wind master assures him, “I promise it’s fun! Even Ming Yi and gege like descending with me, and they’re both the biggest sticks in the mud EVER!”

Well…

What’s the worst that can happen, besides knocking into a few more clouds?

“…Okay,” he mutters, allowing himself to be dragged all the way to the gates, and once there—he sucks in a deep breath, taking a running jump off of the edge.

Shi Qingxuan beams, hands on his hips. It’s so satisfying, getting people to take that leap of faith—

Oh. Oh right!

He has to jump after him!

The wind master charges, fan in hand, cackling with delight as he leaps off of the edge with a dramatic little twirl, swooping his arms around him.

For a moment, as Xie Lian plummets, it feels like a pretty terrible idea.

He’s in a rapid free fall, even less controlled than his last two attempts, preparing for the inevitable moment when a cloud smacks into him, but…

That moment never comes.

Instead, just when he’s starting to panic—the wind catches him, swooping him up in a current of air.

At first, it’s disorienting—sort of like when he was swooped up in the desert before, worried about where San Lang was, if he was alright, but now—

Now, when he allows his body to stop struggling, it—

Xie Lian can’t describe it in any way other than saying it feels like flying.

It takes him a moment to feel comfortable with it, the way the wind occasionally swoops him higher before letting him glide down, his stomach flipping pleasantly with the pull of gravity, but once he does…

It actually is…

A cautious smile spreads across Xie Lian’s face.

It’s fun.

His hair whips around him as he drops again, and this time—he lets out a surprised laugh, arms spread out around him, gasping as he coasts again.

It’s—

“See what I mean?” Shi Qingxuan calls over, a few meters above—much more poised, but that’s to be expected.

“Y…Yes!” Xie Lian agrees breathlessly, “It’s—It’s really niIIIICE!”

The wind swoops him up out of nowhere, flipping him playfully before letting him drop again, and this time—Xie Lian actually squeals with surprise and delight, almost like—

Almost like being a child again.

When he was small, his father used to toss him up into the air, watching the little prince squeal and laugh as he came back down, catching him every time. Just…just like this.

Shi Qingxuan is laughing with him now, enjoying the sight of the ever calm, always thoughtful Crown Prince of Xianle devolve into happy, breathless laughter.

He looks so young when he does, and it’s easy to imagine the happy, carefree prince that he once was.

Shi Qingxuan has heard the occasional story. Granted, most of them were rather critical, or often mocking—

But sometimes, they would describe someone of such incredible talent and beauty, beloved by the entire world.

Now, with Xie Lian smiling and laughing, not a single line of worry or concern left in his face—it’s easy to imagine that.

When they finally do land, it’s gentle—with the Wind Master resting on the balls of his feet, and Xie Lian coming down lightly on his knees in the grass.

“See?” Shi Qingxuan beams, shaking his hair out, earrings tinkling as he looks around, rather satisfied. “There’s nothing to be worried abou—!”

He turns to look at Xie Lian, then stops, clapping his hands over his mouth to hold back a laugh.

“…Is something wrong?”

“No!” Shi Qingxuan squeaks between his fingers, using one hand to gesture frantically. “No, no no! Absolutely not, I just…your hair…!”

He hunches over, his ribs aching from the urge to keep quiet, and Xie Lian reaches up to check, eyes wide.

“…Oh my…”

“It’s okay!”

The Wind Master assures him, snapping his fan open once more, “I’ve got it! Just stay still, your highness!”

Of course—Xie Lian does, squeezing his eyes shut as another gale of wind sweeps past his face, whipping around him for a moment before going still.

“…There!”

Shi Qingxuan places his hands on his hips, looking over his work.

Well—it’s still a little windswept, but definitely not the tangled mess it was before, and that’s an improvement!

Besides, it’s not like the Prince of Xianle ever looks bad, so it’s fine!

The prince rises to his feet slowly, brushing his robes off, checking for the hairpiece on his head, and the chain around his neck.

After confirming everything is in place, he turns to the Wind Master once more, “Do you know the way to Ghost City from here?”

“Sure do!” Shi Qingxuan grins, spinning his scroll between his fingertips, similar to the one Xie Lian was given by Jun Wu before leaving the palace. “Shall we?”

He offers the Prince of Xianle his arm, and, after a moment, Xie Lian takes it.

And this feels…almost familiar.

It feels like being seventeen years old again, with his friends on each arm, pointedly talking and laughing over them in order to end another petty argument.

That’s what this is.

It feels like friendship.

And it’s been a long, long time since Xie Lian had a friend.

Which also forces him to confront the fact that, while he called San Lang a friend, and he treated him as such—Xie Lian didn’t actually see him that way.

But what else could he be? What other word is there for the connection they had?

More than strangers. Fond of one another.

It was just…Friendship. It must have been a different form of friendship. Xie Lian can’t think of another word to describe it.

“Your highness? Are you alright?”

Xie Lian grasps at the chain around his neck for a moment, biting his lip. “…I’m fine,” he mutters. “Lead the way.”

Friendship is important. But more so then having enough friends—it’s about choosing the right friends.

Pei Ming knows that better than anyone—he’s chosen wrong plenty of times before.

But now, in what is objectively not his best moment—they’re the ones beside him.

Metaphorically speaking. Ling Wen is standing over Mu Qing’s shoulder, watching as the martial god reapplies the bandages on the General’s torso.

“Will the sutures hold?”

“As long as he doesn’t stab himself again,” Mu Qing replies flatly, seeking irritated by the hovering.

“To be fair,” Pei holds up one finger, correcting him, “I stabbed myself in the chest, not the stomach—”

“Don’t justify it.” Shi Wudu cuts him off flatly. He’s standing in front of the window, his arms crossed—expression hidden from view “It doesn’t make you sound less idiotic.”

Pei Ming snaps his mouth shut, huffing out a pouty little sigh, and Mu Qing straightens, bag in hand. “By mortal standards—it should be healed before the Mid-Autumn festival.”

Ling Wen arches an eyebrow. “Should?”

“He’s a god suffering from a wound delivered by an ancient cursed tool,” Mu Qing replies dryly. “It’s not an exact science.”

“He’s sturdy, Ling Wen.” Shi Wudu shrugs, staring down to the streets of Heaven below. “He’ll be fine. Leave Xuan Zhan to his business.”

The Civil Goddess crosses her arms with a shrug, watching as Mu Qing leaves the room—and thus, the three friends are left alone.

Pei isn’t blind to the tension in the air, and he lets out a heavy sigh. “Look, it’s not like I had a way of knowing beforehand.”

“Was there anything about this ghost in the brief?” Shi Wudu questions, his arms tightening around himself. “Do we know anything about him?”

“…No,” Ling Wen admits. “There’s barely more than a brief historical record of him.”

“How is that possible for a ghost that ancient?”

“I don’t know,” she isn’t accustomed to saying those words—and clearly doesn’t enjoy it. “Jun Wu would be more likely to know that than me, and he didn’t indicate any knowledge.”

“That does’t mean that he doesn’t know,” Shi Wudu mutters, his expression turning dark.

Pei Ming’s eyebrows raise at that as he sits up, bracing his arm against his stitches as he does. “Is there anything you’d like to add to that statement?”

The Water Master is still facing away from him, arms crossed.

“It wasn’t a statement,” he mutters. “Just an obvious fact.”

“…It’s possible he didn’t want to divulge sensitive information to the entire heavenly court,” Lin Wen agrees, her tone somewhat conciliatory. “But that’s not the primary issue at hand.”

“I don’t see how it isn’t,” Pei sighs heavily.

“Whatever that ghost’s intentions were—it essentially sent a tool for assassination to the largest pool of possible victims. It was a malicious move.”

“Yes,” Ling Wen agrees. “I plan on discussing that with the emperor in our next meeting. But you we’re almost killed, Pei.”

“I think that’s a little dramatic,” the general starts—and Shi Wudu finally turns his gaze, his eyes sharp.

“You’re lucky it didn’t hit you any higher, or else mortal medicine would have been useless,” the water master mutters flatly. “Don’t call her dramatic.”

The tension between the two is clear, and Ling Wen—she sighs, sliding her hands over the sides of her head to smooth her hair.

“You’re both missing the point—Pei Ming, your survival impacts more than just you. Do you understand that?”

The Martial God blinks, raising an eyebrow.

“Ling Wen, if this is your way of saying you’ve FINALLY developed an emotional attachment to me—”

“Hardly.” The civil goddess cuts him off coldly. “It’s well known that, aside from his highness the emperor, power and influence in the heavenly court is divided between you two.”

Pei Ming, the strongest of the martial gods—and Shi Wudu, the strongest of all of the elemental masters. And even if he isn’t classified as a martial god—

Very few would be willing to take the Water Master in hand to hand, nonetheless.

“Your point being?” Wudu mutters.

“If either one of you is displaced, the balance in the Heavenly Court could shift dramatically,” she holds a hand up to stop Pei before he can start, “and before you go on about not wanting Jun Wu’s position—I know that. Everyone knows that.”

Except perhaps the emperor himself.

“But if something unforeseen ever happened to the emperor, everyone would look to you. That’s no small thing, Pei.” Ling Wen warns him, her gaze stern. “You should take it more seriously.”

There was a time when the general did, but—

He’s so tired, now. He hides it well, but…

Those closest to him can see it clearly.

Pei Ming never would have been injured to begin with if he had been operating at full capacity.

“And I don’t know what you were thinking, contradicting the emperor in public.” Ling Wen turns her gaze to the Water Master.

“I didn’t realize you were such a fan of Crimson Rain Sought Flower.”

“Oh,” Shi Wudu rolls his eyes, “Give me a break. I’ve never even met the creature.”

“Then why risk Jun Wu’s ire by defending him?”

“His ire?” Cerulean eyes drift towards her, turning snide.

“Is his ego that fucking fragile?”

The Civil Goddess stares back at him, silent—and they both know his question might as well be rhetorical.

Pei watches the two, and finally—he breaks the tension. “It seems like there’s something else you want to ask, Ling Wen.”

“…Are you two hiding anything that I should know about?” She questions, mirroring Shi Wudu’s posture, her arms wrapped tightly around her middle. “Because I can’t plan for things without proper information.”

Pei thinks it over, and Shi Wudu turns his gaze back to the window.

“It would be impossible for me to spare every detail of my life—public or private,” the general murmurs. “But I can’t think of anything relevant that I’ve been hiding.”

Ling Wen’s gaze drifts to the Water Master, who has his back turned to both of them.

“And what about you?”

Shi Wudu glances back at her, startled. “What?”

Ling Wen watches him closely. “Is there anything you’ve been keeping to yourself that either one of us should know?”

“…” The younger god looks away, shaking his head.

He can’t say it.

If he did, they might try to do something.

And if they did, it would present the very risk that Ling Wen is trying to mitigate now.

Still—the Civil Goddess has her own suspicions behind the Emperor’s targeting of Pei, so she asks another question—this one far more blunt.

“And are the two of you still involved?”

Of course, she’s aware of the ongoing affair between the two. Has been since the Mid-Autumn festival forty years before.

But Pei doesn’t keep lovers for long, and she used the word ‘involved,’ which implies intimacy.

And, just as Shi Wudu opens his mouth to deny it—

“We are.”

Shi Wudu’s gaze snaps over to him, sharp, the tips of his ears turning slightly pink, and Pei Shrugs, holding his hands up in a neutral gesture.

“What? As of six days ago, anyway—we were quite involved.”

He didn’t have to use the word ‘quite’ for Ling Wen to get the point.

And it leaves the Water Master entirely unsure of how to respond, his throat tight.

“…As involved as someone like Pei is capable of being, anyway.” He replies flatly, turning away from them both once more. “Does that answer your question?”

“…” Ling Wen watches, silent.

“…I suppose,” She agrees softly. “Pei, you should return to your palace and rest—”

“He can stay here,” Shi Wudu mutters, arms still crossed, his shoulders stiff. “God knows what he’ll do, left to his own devices.”

It’s a fair point, even if it barely veils his intentions.

Ling Wen sighs, shaking her head as she walks out the door. “We’ll discuss this more later.”

Obviously. Both men know that she isn’t easily put off of a burning question, particularly one as serious as this.

When the door shuts behind her, Pei opens his mouth to whine.

“Your brother is going to throw a fit—”

“Shi Qingxuan isn’t here,” The Water Master cuts him off crisply, his tone cool. “The emperor sent him on an assignment with the Crown Prince of Xianle.”

“Oh,” the older man arches an eyebrow. “They’ll make an interesting pair.”

Shi Wudu doesn’t reply, still facing away from him, and Pei Ming sighs, fatigue sinking deep into him, wishing, rather childishly, that the younger god wasn’t standing so far away.

“What—?”

“Take off your clothes.”

The General snaps his mouth shut—surprised, but not upset.

“…What was that?”

“I said,” Shi Wudu turns around, not sparing Pei Ming a look as he strides from the room, fan still clutched between his fingers, “take off your clothes.”

Of all of the Palaces in the Heavenly Capital—that of the Water and Wind Masters is by far the finest.

To be expected, given that the former is the deity of mortal wealth—but his tastes are also more subtle than that of the heavenly emperor.

Instead of being outright ostentatious, every inch of the place rings with subtle quality, from the floorboards to the furnishings.

Pei is rarely ever here, and when he is—he’s fighting off verbal barbs from Shi Qingxuan with a club, so he rarely gets the chance to enjoy the luxury.

Tonight, however, he’s allowed to indulge in one of the finest amenities the palace has to offer—

The baths, of course.

Hot Springs located behind the palace in a set of private courtyards, steaming with warmth, framed by smooth stones and red leaved maples.

It’s peaceful—beautiful.

Pei Ming watches the smooth, toned skin of Shi Wudu’s back from where he stands on the other side of the pool.

Heartbreakingly beautiful.

That’s what this place is.

“You’re angry.” He sighs, bracing his arms against the rocks as he leans back against an underwater ledge.

Shi Wudu doesn’t spare him a glance, rinsing soap from his hair.

“Why would I be angry?”

“There are two options.”

“Oh?” Shi Wudu turns his chin just a hair, giving Pei a glimpse of the curve of his jaw, eyelashes brushing against his cheek. “Do tell.”

“…” The general swallows dryly, the pit of his stomach heating with want. “First, I was ‘idiotic.’”

“You were,” The Water God agrees.

“And why else would I be angry?”

“…Because of what I said to Ling Wen,” Pei theorizes quietly, “though I don’t understand why that would make you angry. She already knew about us.”

But that implies that either one of them knows what ‘us’ means—which they do not.

And Shi Wudu is far more reluctant to question that now, when he’s been recently reminded of the fate of Xuan Ji.

What Pei does to those who get attached. Never cruel, never unfair.

Nonetheless, it’s frightening—and so confusing.

Because everyone who wants to justify Pei’s liaisons—the hearts that he’s broken—they all say the same thing:

That he was always incredibly clear, right from the beginning, about what he wanted.

But he’s never made such specifications to the Water Master at all.

And Shi Wudu couldn’t say if that was out of some genuine measure of affection—or simply because he’s a long term associate of Pei’s, and should already know what he’s like.

“Well,” the god murmurs, “those are both rather good theories.”

It’s a precarious position to be in.

“Are you going to tell me if one of them was right?” Pei questions, watching with a keen eye.

His lover doesn’t respond immediately, squeezing the last of the water out of his hair. “I think I’ll leave you in suspense.”

He’s not that angry, then—not if he’s being playful.

Still—he finally turns around now, the water moving easily around his waist as he makes his way to the other side of the pond, where Pei Ming is sitting.

“Did you mean it before?”

Pei has to force himself to look away from the beads of water slipping down Shi Wudu’s throat, arms, and chest. “Mean what?”

The Water God stops in front of him, watching Pei Ming’s expression, his own gaze unreadable. “When you said that you weren’t hiding anything.”

Pei stares back at him curiously, arching an eyebrow. “Yes. I’d have to be stupid, to hide something from you.”

Shi Wudu rolls his eyes, not in the mood to be sweet talked. “And why is that?”

Pei Ming reaches out, grasping his chin gently.

“Because you’d gut me like a fish.”

The Water Master stares back at him, not seeming particularly satisfied with that explanation, but…

Pei looks honest, at the very least.

Which is more than Shi Wudu can be when the same question is sent back at him:

“And what about you? Are you hiding anything?”

The younger god casts his gaze to the side, and he doesn’t answer, not outright.

He’s hiding many things.

What he’s done. What’s been done to him. What he feels, when Pei says the word ‘us.’

He’s not sure which secrets are worth telling, or if he’d rather be consumed by them.

Instead of answering verbally, he reaches out—fingertips brushing against the stitches in his side. They haven’t gotten wet, despite the general being in the pool—Shi Wudu hasn’t allowed it.

His expression is calm, eyes distant and guarded.

But his fingertips tremble.

“…” Pei catches the water god by the wrist, not to push his hand away—but simply to hold it there.

“Were you worried?”

The corners of Shi Wudu’s mouth tug downward, tired.

What an idiotic question.

Of course, he was worried.

No—he was terrified, when he heard.

“Hey…”

Pei tilts his chin forward, until their foreheads are pressed together.

Shi Wudu is proud. Fiercely so. Won’t admit fear or weakness easily. Not unless he feels…

“Talk to me.”

Not unless he feels like the person listening won’t judge him.

The water god bites his lip.

He runs through the secrets he has, from smallest to biggest. Tries to prioritize which ones are forgivable, and which ones would leave him abandoned.

He settles for the least offensive of them all—and the one that’s making his fingers tremble now, sitting on his chest.

“…It feels like it was my fault,” he mutters, wishing he could hide his expression—but in this position, it isn’t possible.

“Your fault?” Pei Ming questions softly, bringing one hand up to cup the back of Shi Wudu’s hair.

“How could it be your fault?”

Still, the younger man doesn’t answer. Can’t seem to bring himself to, averting his eyes to the side.

“…If you’re worried about distracting me or something like that, don’t be.”

Pei’s smile turns sly, and Shi Wudu is already groaning in anticipation of whatever line he has in mind—

“You’ve been on my mind for centuries now, I’m used to it.”

A surprised little laugh slips out of the Water Master’s throat.

“Is that so?”

“What’s so funny?” The martial god smiles, leaning forward to press his face into the side of Shi Wudu’s neck, earning a small, pleasured sigh when his lips find the younger man’s pulse. “I’m being serious.”

“Oh,” He rolls his eyes, shivering as he tilts his head to the side.

“I believe you.”

Such words have never been uttered with so much sarcasm.

“I’m always being honest around you, you know,” Pei whispers against his skin, fingers bunching in the Water Master’s hair.

It curls when it’s wet, not so different from that of his little brother’s.

“Right…”

“So,” Pei continues, one arm wrapping around the small of Shi Wudu’s back, guiding the god froward until he’s straddling Pei Ming where he sits on the underwater ledge, “when I say that I missed you, you know that I mean it.”

The Water God’s heart skips a beat.

‘Missed you.’

Does he—?

Pei Ming has many talents—but first among them has always been making the person in his arms feel like the most important thing in the world, at that point in time.

“So?” He prompts gently, looking up into Shi Wudu’s eyes. “Did you miss me too?”

Yes.

Yes, yes, yes.

Being around Pei Ming aches, in a way that is both addictive and unbearable, and Shi Wudu feels moronic for becoming dependent on it.

But yes—yes, he did miss him.

He always misses him, hiding behind snark, sarcasm, and pride.

But he doesn’t say that.

Pei makes a soft sound of surprise when hands press against his cheeks, pulling him in. There’s stubble there. His body has a tendency to start growing a beard, when he forgets to magic the new growth away.

But the Water Master appreciates the roughness against his palms.

And he doesn’t answer. Doesn’t say the words out loud.

But Pei has never been kissed like this before. It’s hungry—they always are—but with such a delicate yearning.

The kind of kiss that makes him shudder, fingertips digging bruises into Shi Wudu’s back as he holds him closer.

🔞 BRIEF IMPLIED NSFW SECTION 🔞

He has him like that. There, squirming in his lap, arms wrapped around the Water Master’s back as he arches, panting, crying out his name.

And the words ‘Pei Ming’ sound sweeter on the Shi Wudu’s lips than any mortal prayer the general has ever received.

Even when it’s done—and with General Pei, that always takes quite some time—they don’t pull apart, remaining connected in nearly every way as their breaths and heartbeats begin to slow.

The martial god combs his fingers through wet, tangled curls, and the water master drifts his hands over Pei’s shoulders, fingertips glowing with magic as he soothes the aches in his muscles.

A surprisingly tender gesture, from a man who won’t say that he missed him.

“…I’m sorry about Pei Junior,” he eventually comments, pressing in at the joint of his shoulder blade until Pei lets out a relieved sigh, his gaze suddenly far away. “Did he really never tell you?”

“No,” the general responds, slightly irritable. “And I’ve got no idea why.”

“…Maybe he didn’t want to disappoint you,” Shi Wudu shrugs, sliding one palm up the side of Pei Ming’s bicep. “You’re an idol to the boy, after all.”

And he threw it all away for some dead girl that Pei has never met.

“Disappoint me?” The martial god questions in disbelief.

“That would be ridiculous.”

Sapphire eyes don’t meet his gaze, focusing instead on the planes of Pei Ming’s chest, thinking of the scars that must have once painted a very different picture, in his mortal life. “Is it?”

“My hands are covered in more sins than anyone’s.”

Most martial gods are dubbed ‘General,’ after all—but Pei Ming is one of the few who ever truly lived that title in his mortal life.

And wars aren’t glorious things. They’re bloody, desperate, and cruel.

“Maybe it was that famous honor of yours that intimidated him.”

After all, it’s a difficult thing to live up to.

Pei, the general who broke his sword. The man with all of the power in the world—but who refused to take it.

For all of his flaws, there’s a goodness in him. One that’s difficult to stand beside without feeling a shadow.

“…Honor is a matter of perspective, beautiful.” Pei Ming sighs, reaching up to trail a finger down the side Shi Wudu’s throat.

It’s always been one of his most attractive features. The most satisfying place to leave a mark.

“And perspective changes.”

That it does.

He’s been thinking lately, about visiting his Grand Temple. The one that was liberated only recently by the Crown Prince of Xianle.

He’ll be injured for a while. Jun Wu won’t be able to send him on missions for weeks.

And Pei Ming thinks Shi Wudu would like Gusu.

It’s peaceful there. A good place to forget one’s worries.

And the Water Master seems weighed down by something, more and more with each passing day.

But before he can say a word, Shi Wudu speaks first.

“Can you promise me something?” He murmurs, grasping Pei’s chin.

“If I asked you, would you swear it?”

After all, Pei is many things—but never an oath breaker. If he gives his word, it’s as good as stone.

And of course the general looks up into those eyes, haunted by the array of color, and he replies—

“Anything.”

Anything he liked.

He has hopes it might be for something more romantic, but—

“My brother.”

Those hopes are quickly dashed.

“…What about him?” Pei mumbles—no, nearly grumbles, not wanting to think about Shi Qingxuan at this very moment.

“If something happens to me…swear you’ll protect him?”

Shi Wudu’s voice turns small, however briefly—

And those eyes, those beautiful, spell binding eyes, the same gaze that left General Ming Guang trapped the moment he saw them—

They seem almost frightened.

“…If something happens to you?” Pei questions, his eyes narrowing.

“Has someone threatened you?”

And even if someone had, who could pose a threat to him?

“No,” Lies come easily to the water master, flowing from his lips like anything else. “What Ling Wen said earlier…it just made me worry.” He mumbles, leaning his chin against Pei’s shoulder.

“Promise me?”

Pei is reluctant, of course—but if only to set the Water God’s mind at ease—he swears.

Knowing that promise will never come to fruition—because even if someone could bring Shi Wudu harm, General Pei would never allow it.

But when they’re in bed later, he wonders.

Wonders about the pain in his side. The man in his arms, and the layers of hurt he always seems to be hiding underneath.

But more than anything, he wonders about that dagger, and what it means.

After all—it didn’t live up to it’s name, Pei Ming survived.

But it won’t be long now, before that blade kisses the skin of another god. When it does—it will cut far deeper than before, cutting out lives, fates, and promises.

When that blood is spilled—it will stain the hands of many.

And a dragon will rear it’s head once again.

The path is long, though not so terrible when you have company. The Wind Master has even been so kind as to use his fan to blast them a few miles down the road here and there, much to Xie Lian’s delight—and now, it looms ahead, crimson aura gleaming in the twilight:

Ghost City.

“Have you ever been here before?”

Xie Lian has learned quite a bit about the Wind Master on their journey to the underworld. In part from sneaking his fingers over his scroll, and the rest can be blamed on the fact that the younger god never really stops talking.

“Oh, no—not really,” Shi Qingxuan shakes his head. “I’ve been trying to get Ming Yi to sneak down here with me—I’ve been horribly curious, you know—but he’s been dragging his feet on it…”

Ming Yi, Xie Lian has learned, would be the Earth Master.

Who also happens to be Shi Qingxuan’s closest companion in the Heavenly Court—aside from his elder brother—and (presumably) the woman who was accompanying him in the Crescent Moon Kingdom.

And speaking of his brother…

“It’s pretty amazing that two siblings from the same family both ascended as gods,” Xie Lian comments, “your parents must have been incredibly proud.”

As a matter of fact—he doesn’t think he’s ever heard of such a phenomenon up until now.

“You think so?”

Shi Qingxuan shrugs. “I wouldn’t know—I never knew our parents.”

Then, he stops to think.

“Well, I guess I knew them when I was a baby, but I definitely don’t remember them.”

“Oh,” Xie Lian frowns, apologetic for bringing the matter up, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be!”

The Wind Master’s smile is as bright as ever—and from the sound of his tone, he genuinely doesn’t seem bothered. “It’s always been me and gege. He was my mother, father, brother, the whole thing. And he was very proud when I faced my own heavenly calamity, so you weren’t wrong!”

It’s a little jarring now, listening to the way that Shi Qingxuan speaks about his brother, the Water Master—because it contradicts so sharply with San Lang’s description: the Water Tyrant.

The Ghost King described a cold, detached deity. A prideful creature.

And The Wind Master is describing a devoted elder brother. Xie Lian supposes both could be true—after all, people have many different sides to them, he knows that well.

Still, it’s contradictory.

“And the way you spoke to General Ming Guang before, in the Grand Martial Hall…”

Xie Lian tilts his head, concerned. “He seems to have a friendship with your brother. You don’t think that’ll cause problems?”

That only draws a disbelieving snort as the Wind Master crosses his arms, flicking his hair over his shoulder irritably.

“If it did, that would be a relief—but no, gege knows I can’t stand Pei. I wish he would stop hanging around with him. Honestly, the ‘Three Tumors’ thing hasn’t helped with his reputation…”

So—he’s aware of the ‘Water Tyrant’ title, then?

Xie Lian’s eyebrows raise.

“…The three tumors?”

Shi Qingxuan blows a tuft of bangs from his forehead irritably, “I guess you haven’t heard of them either, huh?”

But unlike nearly everyone else in the Heavenly Court—he doesn’t sound critical when he says it.

“Well—the three most powerful gods in the Heavens—they aren’t really popular, but they’re each close friends with one another. Ming Guang, Ling Wen, and my brother. I don’t actually know why everyone has an issue with Ling Wen, not other than stupid rumors anyway…”

Xie Lian lifts his chin curiously, “Rumors?”

He’s found Ling Wen pleasant enough in the interactions they’ve had. A little cold at times perhaps—but always helpful, and never outright rude.

“Oh, just the usual bullshit when a woman does well,” Shi Qingxuan rolls his eyes.

“That she slept around to get her position, stuff like that. Which is ridiculous—everyone knows she only got promoted after the last head civil god imploded. People even say she’s intimate with Pei and my brother…” He makes a sound of disgust. “It’s a bold faced lie.”

Xie Lian grimaces with silent sympathy. After all—it’s a plight that he understands rather well. Whether he’d like to or not, but…

“And Pei Ming—he’s as arrogant and self important as they come. Not to mention how many issues he’s caused by sleeping around.”

And there’s no need to explain why Shi Wudu would be included in the three—his personality is reason enough to make him unpopular with the other officials.

“Oh—we’re about to enter the city now. Should I go ahead and give you some spiritual power? Just in case?”

It’s prudent, so Xie Lian nods in agreement, reaching his hand out, “I shouldn’t need too much, so there’s no need to overdo—”

He stops, startled to find that the hand underneath his own is much smaller than it was before, when Shi Qingxuan was dragging him out of the Heavens.

“…Did you change forms again, Lord Wind Master?” He questions politely.

A distinctly female voice replies—

“Truth be told, I’m usually worshipped as a goddess, so I’m more powerful in this form!” She sighs.

Similar to Ling Wen, who is near exclusively worshipped as a god.

“Besides, women have stronger auras of yin,” she explains, robes swishing around her ankles as she walks. “So it’s better to travel in the ghost realm disguised as a woman. Really, you should try it!”

“Oh…” The Crown Prince smiles awkwardly, shaking his head. “I don’t think—”

“You aren’t worshipped as a god or a goddess anyway,” Shi Qingxuan points out, “so it won’t impact you—no offense,” she adds, realizing that might have been slightly hurtful—but Xie Lian doesn’t seem to mind.

“None taken, that’s correct.”

“And,” Shi Qingxuan rubs her chin thoughtfully, “if that boy who was with you before is really Crimson Rain Sought Flower—doesn’t he already know what you look like?”

Well—Xie Lian can’t argue that point.

“I don’t think I need to hide from San Lang…” The god replies, hesitant.

“We’re friends. I don’t think he would be upset if I chose to visit.”

“Certainly not,” Shi Qingxuan agrees, “but we’re not visiting—we’re investigating his territory. It might make things a little awkward…”

Xie Lian frowns, squirming a little with discomfort.

He’s never used a spell to transform his body before—never needed to. And for gods and goddesses—it’s not the same as a ghost shifting into a different skin, or using a clone. The actual spiritual body and form changes, and—

Well, what if Xie Lian and Shi Qingxuan got separated?

If he ran out of spiritual power and didn’t have a means of getting more, he’d be stuck in that form—which would be rather embarrassing, but…

…It could make things awkward for San Lang, if he learned that Xie Lian was here, and his purpose…

“Do you not know how?”

“I know how.”

Shi Qingxuan jumps at the sound of her companion’s voice, turning her head to see—that—well—

It’s already been done.

“Ah!” She claps her hands over her cheeks, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Your highness!”

“…Did I do it incorrectly?”

“No! You look amazing, jiejie!”

The princess grimaces, fiddling with her hair—that much, at least, feels the same.

Jiejie is a new one.

She must be shorter now, she can feel that from the way her robes feel a little too long, dragging slightly on the ground behind her.

They’re also looser in the shoulders now, and tighter in the chest—forcing her to adjust her belt slightly to keep the sleeves from slipping off to one shoulder.

“Do I look different enough?”

Shi Qingxuan stops, rubbing her chin in thought was she looks Xie Lian over.

In truth—the prince wasn’t a hulking, hyper masculine figure to begin with, so the transformation isn’t entirely unrecognizable.

She’s smaller, her features slightly more delicate. Heart shaped face, fuller lips and all of that—not to mention the changes to her figure.

Shi Qingxuan probably wouldn’t have recognized her if she hadn’t transformed right in front of her. And honestly, unless someone was obsessed enough to have Xie Lian’s form completely memorized—they wouldn’t recognize her either.

So, it’s fine!

“Absolutely!”

Well, if she sounds so sure—then there probably isn’t much to worry about, is there?

Xie Lian reaches back, finding the hood of her robes, flicking it up and over her head, covering her eyes.

It’s not long before they find a crowd of female ghosts to slip in behind, listening in as they chatter on about facials, finding new funeral garb for the change in season, and so on.

“I’m so glad Ghost City is open again!”

“Oh? Was it closed?” One of the ghosts questions.

“I hadn’t heard a thing about that.”

“Oh, yes,” her companion agrees rather seriously, shaking her head. “It was just after the Ghost Festival—though I am surprised, my friend said Hua Chengzhu returned last night in quite a state.”

Xie Lian perks up, lifting her chin.

…Hua Chengzhu? It makes sense, after all—this is his territory, of course he’d be the lord of the city.

And yet, hearing him referred to that way makes her fingertips tingle with nervous energy.

Because of the task at hand, naturally.

“A state?”

“Oh, yes—he was absolutely furious,” the ghost sighs, rubbing at her cheeks. “But no one knows what happened.”

“Who does, with that man?”

Xie Lian bites her lip.

Was he really that angry? Even if he has nothing to do with the missing official…

Did Xie Lian offend him?

She can’t recall having done anything that offensive the night before, except, well…

She did get a little short with San Lang just before falling asleep, thrown off by…

‘You’ll never find anyone in heaven and earth more sincere than me.’

But Hua Cheng didn’t seem so petty as to be upset over something like that, really…

Xie Lian doesn’t realize that she’s been leaning closer—all under the premise of being able to hear the conversation a little better—until one of the ghosts looks back with a start.

“Say—who are those two? They didn’t leave the burial ground with us.”

Xie Lian leans back, tugging her hood down a little further over her face with a nervous laugh, “Ah, well…”

“We came from a different burial mound,” Shi Qingxuan interrupts with an easy smile. “Greetings!’

Xie Lian is relieved in that moment to have the Wind Master with her—she has a relaxed way of speaking that makes her easy to believe whereas Xie Lian, well…she’s infamously terrible at lying.

And the other ghosts seem to accept that well enough, until…

“Say, meimei…”

One of the ghosts leans close, examining Shi Qingxuan’s face rather closely. “That’s a nice complexion you have there…who does your facials?”

“Oh, I…ah…hahaha…” The Wind Master giggles, leaning back with a slightly strained smile. “I do them myself!”

It’s the wrong answer.

“What?!”

“Do mine!”

“No!” Another ghost huffs, grabbing Shi Qingxuan by the arm and yanking. “Me first!”

“Wait your turn!”

Xie Lian extends a hand helplessly, wanting to help, but at a loss for what to say; and…

Before she knows it, Shi Qingxuan has been dragged off.

Leaving Xie Lian alone on the streets of Ghost City, slightly dazed as she glances around underneath the hood, trying to get her bearings.

There’s just one problem—

There are far too many ghosts around, and the number of different pockets of resentful energy is…disorienting.

Not to mention how loud it is—with so many voices inhuman and otherwise barking out into the air.

How on earth is she supposed to look?

And then, there are other problems.

“Hey, miss!” A shopkeeper grins, fangs gleaming as he leers over her. “Looking for a new tongue?”

Xie Lian starts, clapping one hand over her mouth nervously. Is a tongue something that a person can buy…?

“I like mine the way it is, thank you,” she squeaks awkwardly, hurrying past.

“Hungry, little lady? Fancy some chicken soup?”

“Oh, no, I’m fine—!”

“Hello, gorgeous!”

One stall owner goes so far as to grab her by the wrist, “Those boots look too big for you, what do you say to trying on some of my slippers? They’ll look amazing on that figure!”

“…” Xie Lian forces a smile, yanking her wrist out of his grip. “No, thank you! I’m in a hurry!”

But each time she wrestles herself free from one ghost, she just stumbles into another—and not only does it leave her exasperated, but—

How is she supposed to investigate like this? Her original form certainly wouldn’t have drawn this much attention.

“Well look here…”

She backs up sharply when a voice echoes near her ear, hitting the wall of a nearby store, lips twisting into a grimace.

“Don’t be nervous, little lady…” the ghost smirks, leaning in curiously. “I don’t bite…much,” he tacks on that little correction at the end, and she frowns.

Well, that’s no way to talk to a lady, even if he doesn’t know that Xie Lian isn’t one.

Still, handling this with fists would make quite a scene, and she…

“I’m just…looking for my husband, excuse me—”

“Husband!” The ghost barks out a laugh. “A young thing like you? Married?”

“She’s trying to let you down easy, asshole.” A voice barks out—this one feminine, but older, graveled—like someone who has spent a few centuries shouting at people. “Now leave her be.”

Xie Lian let’s put a low breath of relief, moving closer to the woman speaking.

“Oi, Lan Chang, who do ya think you’re talking to?” One of the other ghosts grouses, taking a step towards her. “Everyone knows you run this block running off a little competition is just pathetic…”

Xie Lian blinks owlishly under her hood.

Competition?

The ghost—Lan Chang, it would seem—rolls her eyes, and Xie Lian feels heavy, manicured hands land on her shoulder. “She’s not selling anything, worm. Am I gonna have to ask you to leave her be again?” She hisses, baring her fangs. “You know I don’t like asking twice.”

While the two ghosts face off with one another, Xie Lian mumbles a few rushed words of thanks before ducking down, slipping out from under Lan Chang’s hands and making her way down the alleyway.

Once out of sight, the princess clutches her head with a groan.

This isn’t working.

She can’t work like this—and she wasn’t expecting to be nearly so reliant on Shi Qingxuan, but, with this place being as disorienting as it is…

She lets out a sigh, fumbling for her spiritual power—what remains of it, anyway—going through the process to change back—

“Wait, you’re a MAN?!”

Xie Lian freezes—and, mortifyingly enough—his first instinct is to press both palms against his chest to check.

And indeed, he is.

“Wait, Lan Chang, you’re in with a cut sleeve?!”

“Am NOT!” She sputters, “How was I supposed to know it was a disguise?!”

“I don’t know, don’t women have a way of sensing one another?!”

“What the hell are you talking about now?!” She squawks. And when Xie Lian tries to inch away from the argument, he feels that same manicured hand from before grab him by the back of his robes.

“And just where do you think you’re going?!” Lan Chang snaps. She’s surprisingly strong, to Xie Lian’s dismay, and though he can’t see her glare—he knows that it must be formidable. “What are you doing, walking around like that?! Are you up to something—?”

Xie Lian opens his mouth, scrambling to think of an appropriate explanation, but all that comes out is—

“…Was I cute?” He asks in a small voice, feeling utterly ridiculous.

Lan Chang stops, looking to the ghost that was harassing Xie Lian before, both staring in confusion.

“…I mean…yes,” the man agrees, scratching the side of his head—and when Lan Chang glares, he throws his hands up. “Well, what do you expect me to do, woman?! Lie?!”

“Then that’s…reason enough!” Xie Lian mutters, his face getting hotter and hotter by the moment.

He can’t exactly sell it the way that Shi Qingxuan can, but he’s made an effort.

“That’s…” Lan Chang starts, her eyes narrowed—

“Do we have a problem here?”

Oh great, another arrival.

Xie Lian doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

The newcomer sounds young—maybe a teenager.

Probably male, though it’s hard to tell exactly—

“N-No, sir…” The ghost who was bothering Xie Lian before shakes his head, bowing nervously, “None at all!”

Sir? A male, then, but also—

Xie Lian’s stomach lurches hopefully as he peeks through his hood, but…

It isn’t crimson.

Well—everything is crimson here, actually—Hua Cheng’s aura covers the entire city.

Comforting, in a strange way, but nonetheless—there isn’t the silver core that he’s used to seeing at the center of it.

Still, the aura before him is strong.

For a moment, it’s almost reminiscent of Shi Qingxuan’s—a vibrant shade of green—but this is far brighter, far more powerful—and far less mobile, with sharp curves and edges.

And at it the center is a flickering core, almost like a flame—shades of orange and red shifting.

“Lan Chang,” the young man questions calmly, “do you make a habit of harassing travelers these days?”

“Oh, no—” Xie Lian speaks up with a frown, surprising the female ghost when he takes up in her defense, “She was trying to help me at first, then she saw I was disguised…”

“Disguised?” The newcomer murmurs, arching an eyebrow. “For what purpose?”

“Probably to trick unsuspecting ladies!” Lan Chang grumbles, crossing her arms. “I was completely fooled!”

The younger ghost sends her a cold look.

“Lan Chang, are you trying to say the only reason someone might change their form is to prey upon women?”

She stops, her mouth frozen in a perfect ‘o,’ realizing how her statement sounded, her expression going slightly pale under a thick layer of makeup.

“Well…no…”

“But it’s still pretty weird that he was in disguise,” the male ghost from before grumbles.

“Half of the city wears mask,” the most powerful of the three responds flatly. “Did he give a reason?”

“…He said it was…just because he looked cute…”

Xie Lian has finished the debate between laughing and crying—deciding on the latter, if only his tear ducts would obey him.

“And did he?”

Xie Lian goes still, and Lan Chang sputters. “Hah?!”

“Did he look cute?”

“I-I guess! Why does it—?!”

“Then leave him alone.”

“But—!”

“I’m sorry,” Xie Lian listens to the young man closely, and despite the different aura, something about him seems…familiar, “did I stutter, or have you gone collectively deaf?”

Definitely—very familiar.

“We—!”

“Get lost, before I get annoyed.” The young man hisses.

The other two ghosts give each other wounded looks before scrambling off, and Xie Lian is left standing in the alleyway, pulling his hood a little lower before offering an awkward bow of thanks.

“Thank you, young man, it was kind of you to intercede on my behalf…”

The young ghost glances him over with a raised eyebrow, crossing his arms. “It’s fine. What’s your name, mister?”

He really does sound very young, barely a young adult. And he was able to intimidate those other two ghosts that easily?

Then again, in the ghost realm—looks are often deceiving.

Unfortunately, the most recent alias Xie Lian was using is the one that falls from his lips—force of habit.

“Oh—it’s Hua Lian,” he starts with a friendly smile, then stops, realizing how…given whose territory he’s in…

The immediate response he receives is a surprised giggle, and his shoulders slump slightly, realizing how it must sound. “Ah…I—”

“Don’t worry about it,” the young man snickers, offering a polite bow in response. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hua.”

Xie Lian’s ears are burning so much, he half expects steam to start coming out of them.

“Are you looking for something? You seem pretty out of it…” Then, the ghost examines him a little more closely, making Xie Lian shrink away instinctively, fidgeting with the hem of his hood—

“…Mr. Hua,” the young man repeats, this time his voice much more gentle, “can you not see very well?”

It’s a delicate way of asking—far more polite than what Xie Lian is used to—and he forces a shallow nod, offering a self deprecating smile.

“…I’m afraid I can’t, no.”

The air becomes slightly tense—but not in the way that Xie Lian is used to. It doesn’t feel like the young man is bracing to attack him, or angry with him…

He seems a little anxious.

But before Xie Lian can ask what’s wrong—

“Tell me what you’re looking for, I’ll show you.”

There’s no hint of malice in his tone at all—and while that does set Xie Lian at ease, he…

Doesn’t exactly know how to explain what he’s looking for without completely blowing his cover. He was the one who asked for this mission, after all—he can’t mess it up so soon.

“…I’m looking for a friend of mine,” Xie Lian explains. “They might be hurt, and they might have come here to hide until help could come, so…”

“…And would that person be your husband?”

Oh heavens, he heard that?

“…No…” Xie Lian croaks, wishing the hood covered his cheeks.

“No, just a friend…”

“I see,” the young man muses. “Well, I haven’t heard about anyone injured showing up here. But I know the best place to look for people who have.”

“…You do?”

“Yep,” the young man spins on his heel, pinching Xie Lian’s sleeve. “I’ll show you.”

He isn’t overfamiliar, grabbing Xie Lian by the arm or anything like that, the way most people do when they figure out he can’t see. His grip on Xie Lian’s sleeve is surprisingly delicate, just deftly tugging the god in the direction he wants him to go.

Finally, he stops in front of a set of steps, tugging Xie Lian’s sleeve until the god places his hand on a railing before letting go. “It’s thirteen steps, the doors are already open.”

Xie Lian nods gratefully, grasping the railing a little more firmly before he asks—

“…I’m sorry, but what sort of establishment is this?”

It sounds rather loud inside after all—full of shouting and laughter. Some sort of pub, perhaps?

“…” The young man glances up at the sign above the door, and when he speaks—it’s bittersweet.

“…Money over life, and gains over shame,” he mutters under his breath, his throat suddenly tight.

“…” Xie Lian tilts his head to the side, confused—to which the ghost just smiles, shaking his head.

“It’s a gambler’s den, Mr. Hua. Everyone important in the city is in there.”

He steps down, turning around, shoving his hands in his pockets—and Xie Lian can’t help but be curious. After all, he’s the most powerful ghost that the god has come across in the city so far—

“But not you?”

The younger man stops, scratching his head sheepishly.

“Well…”

Of all the answers Xie Lian may have expected—

“I’m…technically…kinda…grounded right now.”

—that…was not it.

“You—?” Before Xie Lian can ask more, he hears the sound of something clicking—

/Clack!/

/Clack!/

And then that aura is gone, and the boy with it.

“…” Xie Lian stares off in the direction he disappeared from, curious.

Just what sort of child was that? So powerful, but apparently…grounded? Can ghosts even be grounded? Is that an option?

Before he can contemplate the matter further, there’s more boisterous laughter.

All echoing from inside the gambler’s den, filled with more echoing shouts, screams, and brouhahas than Xie Lian can keep count of and…

There doesn’t seem to be a better place to investigate, it’s true.

He climbs the steps, carefully counting thirteen—then walks inside.

A large chamber looms before him, filled with countless different tables, each one packed with gamblers rolling sets of dice, pushing their luck over and over again, screaming with elation or meaning with defeat as they fall.

“Welcome, sir,” an attendant smiles from beside him.

“Would you like to be placed at a table?”

Is that how gambling works? Xie Lian’s never tried it. The closest he ever came was betting with Feng Xin on how many books he could balance on his head, but—

“I’m afraid I don’t have any money,” the prince smiles apologetically.

“Could I just watch instead?”

Normally, that’s the sort of thing that would get a person laughed out the door—but the attendant seems easy going enough, laughing softly.

“Oh, we rarely bet with money, sir,” she smiles. “But you can watch as much as you like.”

…What kind of gambler’s den doesn’t bet with money? What on earth could they be using instead—?

It isn’t long, however, before Xie Lian hears the answer to his question.

“Ah—I bet my arm!” A man at the front table declares, slamming his fists down for emphasis.

No one else near by seems particularly thrilled by his presence —though a few seem to find his persistent wailing amusing.

“You’re better off paying out…”

“No!” The man exclaims. “Just give me another roll!”

“You think anyone wants your worthless arm?” A voice drawls.

Xie Lian stops, his eyes widening—because he knows that voice.

It’s a couple of octaves deeper than it was before—and it’s tone is warmer, all the more alluring for it, but—

…San Lang?

“But you’ve been letting other people bet their limbs all night!” The merchant protests.

“Those were athletes and master swordsmen,” another gambler snorts derisively. “You think that arm of yours is good enough to bet on?”

The man pauses, eyes bulging with frustration under his mask.

“FINE!” He rasps, “that’s FINE! What about ten years of my daughter’s life?!”

Xie Lian’s expression twists with disgust. What kind of father could offer such a thing? But—

“As you wish,” Hua Cheng’s voice drawls once again—and from the sound of it, he’s further from the rest of the crowd, elevated on a dais.

“You’re lucky, sir,” the attendant by Xie Lian’s side smiles, “our lord is playing tonight.”

Their lord…?

“Odds or evens?”

“O-Odds!”

But as Xie Lian recalls, Hua Cheng’s luck is powerful—doesn’t that mean he’ll automatically win? And if so, the man’s daughter will be—?

“HA!” The merchant screeches when he flips over his cup, holding up the dice for all to see. “I’ve won!! I’ve WON!”

Xie Lian let’s out a shallow breath of relief without meaning to, placing one hand over his chest. At least that’s over—

“I want to play another round!”

“You’ve already done enough to turn your business around,” one of the ghosts at the table grumbles. “What more do you want?”

“I want…all of my competitors to drop dead!” The man declares, slamming his palms on the table again. “Give me another roll!”

“That’ll cost you more than ten years…” another man grumbles. “And why make a bet like that? There are other—!”

“I know what I want!” The human snaps. “How about twenty years, then?! And her fate in marriage!”

Xie Lian feels horrified—but the ghosts laugh and jeer.

“The human’s desperate—did you hear him?”

“Betting his own daughter’s future! HA! What a sight!”

“Alright,” one of the attendants agrees, gesturing for the man to continue. “Have at it, then.”

Xie Lian bites his lip, hands balling into fists. Should he say something? He—

That’s when a voice speaks up beside him, this time familiar; “Best not to interfere.”

Xie Lian sighs with relief, fumbling blindly for Shi Qingxuan’s arm, grasping him by the elbow. It’s not something he would normally do—but the Wind Master has a way of setting him at ease.

“You changed back?”

“As soon as I got away from those women,” he groans. “I had to make something up as I went along—and when it didn’t do anything, they kept on asking, ‘Why didn’t it work meimei?’ And ‘were you lying to us, meimei?’ Meimei, meimei, meimei!”

Shi Qingxuan huffs, stamping his foot quietly with irritation. “So…I sort of lost my temper and said it wasn’t my fault, they were just ugly…” He admits with a sheepish pout, and Xie Lian can’t help but snort, covering his mouth politely. “Don’t laugh, your highness!”

“I’m not, I’m not…” Xie Lian clears his throat, keeping one hand on his friend’s elbow. “How did you know to find me here, anyway?”

Had he run into that interesting young ghost as well?

“Oh,” the Wind Master blinks, his eyes wide.

“No—this is just the most popular landmark in Ghost City. It’s where I told Lang Qianqiu to meet us.”

Xie Lian’s eyes widen sharply under his hood, and he grips the windmaster’s elbow just a little tighter. “…Pardon?”

“Lang Qianqiu?” Shi Qingxuan repeats, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh—I guess you probably haven’t heard of him either!”

Xie Lian, once again, doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“He’s General Tai Hua, Warden of the East. Since this falls within his territory, I had him meet us here so he could assist. He’s usually pretty helpful.”

But in this situation?

“Does he…?” Xie Lian starts to speak, but then—

/BOOM!/

Oh—oh dear.

A fist comes down on the gambling table—crushing not only the cup of dice, but the hand of the merchant holding it.

“What kind of bastard are you?!”

Xie Lian cringes.

A young man stands over the gambling table, sharp eyebrows pinched into a severe glare, “What father would bet his own daughter’s life?!”

The prince can’t manage to lift his face from his hands. “Did you…warn him about keeping a low profile?”

“I…” Shi Qingxuan goes pale.

“I mean, I did, but…”

When it comes to Tai Hua, certain things go in one ear, and out the other. Xie Lian knows that perfectly well.

And now, he’s already cause a scene. But before Xie Lian or Shi Qingxuan can hurry forward to stop him—

There’s a familiar chuckle from above—one that makes Xie Lian’s stomach flip, in spite of the situation.

“You must have nerves of steel, causing trouble in my territory.”

‘My territory.’

That’s when Xie Lian remembers what Hua Cheng told him the night before—

That ghosts are at their most powerful inside their own lairs. Which, in Hua Cheng’s case, would be ghost city. He could probably obliterate a martial god in a weakened state—but here?

It wouldn’t even be a fight.

“…Are you the owner of this place?”

Hisses echo all around.

“He comes here and insults us, and he doesn’t even even know our master?”

“Stupid asshole!” Another ghost sneers. “The entire city is his!”

Shi Qingxuan goes pale. “Please don’t tell me that’s…”

Xie Lian isn’t frightened, but his expression is grim. “It is.”

“Y-you’re sure?”

“Positive.” Even if it’s slightly different, he’d know that voice anywhere—and when he looks in that direction—

He can see that silver core there, warm and bright. In spite of everything, his gaze softens.

“We’re dead,” Shi Qingxuan mutters. “We’re so, so dead…”

“No,” Xie Lian shakes his head, reaching over to squeeze his arm reassuringly. “It’ll be alright, as long as he doesn’t—”

“What kind of establishment is this?!” Lang Qianqiu glares around the room, hands on his hips. “It’s like none of you have any human decency!”

“Well of course we don’t!” One of the ghost snaps as the entire crowd starts to boo at the heavenly official. “We ain’t human!”

“Who does he think he is?! I oughta—!”

“You have the option to go to Heaven,” Hua Cheng’s voice is soft, but it Carrie’s throughout the entire room.

“But instead you’re in hell, with me.”

‘Oh dear,’ Xie Lian thinks to himself fretfully. ‘He knows exactly what Lang Qianqiu is, doesn’t he?’

“And if you want to walk away alive—you’ll play by my rules, boy.”

Shi Qingxuan winces this time, clutching his fan tightly between his fingers as he watches the look on Lang Qianqiu’s face.

He’s always been rash, righteous by nature, and…

“Who are you calling a boy?!” He snarls, slamming his fist onto the table once more.

He doesn’t like being spoken down to.

(Though, to be fair—as someone five centuries older, Hua Cheng has every right to call him a child.)

This time, when he smashes his hand down on the long, heavy gambling table—it sends the entire thing flying in the Ghost King’s path.

It never lands.

Without breaking his relaxed posture—legs crossed, one elbow leaned against the arm of his throne like chair—Hua Cheng raises one palm, making the table freeze in midair.

Then, with a flick of his fingers, it hurls itself back at Lang Qianqiu.

The Martial God tries to stop it with one hand, several veins popping in his forehead as he does so.

Behind the curtain, the Wind Master catches Hua Cheng cracking a small smirk as General Tai Hua is forced to use two, his feet sliding back across the wood as he’s forced back.

Then, those long, menacing fingers curl into a fist, and the table shatters into countless splinters, leaving his opponent staggering, spitting out sawdust.

“You—!”

Before he can say another word, Hua Cheng’s finger’s come together again, this time in a—

/Snap!/

And with just one crisp click of his fingers, there’s a metallic rattle as silver chains—seemingly coming out of thin air—descend from the sealing, each one catching the young god by the wrists and ankles, hoisting him up into the air, leaving him splayed helplessly.

Still, the god thrashes with all of his might, his form sparking with spiritual power, “P-Put me DOWN!” He snarls, limbs flailing.

Xie Lian watches those sparks of spiritual energy fretfully, worrying that he might do something stupid and reveal his true form, but—

“HA! The cultivator thinks he can use his magic!” One of the ghosts sneers, giggling at the sight. “Those chains are hellforged by our master himself! Nothing can escape once it’s locked in!”

Hellforged…?

Hua Cheng made them himself?

And just as the ghosts claimed—Lang Qianqiu’s spiritual powers are tightly sealed. Almost reminiscent to the cursed iron shackles Xie Lian came across in Gusu, but this…this seems far more refined.

Back then, when Xie Lian had been trapped under the grip of the cursed iron—it had been an agonizing experience. But Lang Qianqiu doesn’t seem to be in pain at the moment—not counting his wounded pride, at any rate.

“PUT—PUT ME DOWN!”

“My, my…” Hua Cheng muses.

“What an interesting thing I’ve caught…”

/Clack, clack, clack, clack!/

The chains rattle as they flip Lang Qianqiu around, like a puppet on a set of strings, hovering him over the crowd as they cackle and jeer.

“What should we do with you, hmm?”

The ghosts below are gleeful as they throw out suggestions.

“Skin him!”

“Take his head!”

“Drink his blood!”

Heavens, what kind of suggestions are those?

Hua Cheng, however, seems rather amused. “How about this—whoever wins the next round can take it home and eat it.”

“It?!” The god rages, “I’m not an it—!” He’s cut off when the chains twist him again, this time dangling him upside down. “S…STOP DOING THAT!”

“…This is going to be a problem,” Xie Lian mutters, leaning close to Shi Qingxuan, keeping his voice low. “How is your luck?”

“Ah…” The Wind Master shrugs helplessly, “Like anyone else’s? Sometimes good, sometimes bad…and what about yours?”

“Terrible.” Xie Lian replies morosely, leading to the younger god laughing nervously.

“Hahaha…I’m sure it can’t be that bad, your highness!”

“The highest I’ve ever rolled is snake eyes…” Xie Lian tries not to be self pitying, but—that’s hard not to do when the truth actually is rather pitiful.

“Oh…well…we could work that to our advantage, actually!” Shi Qingxuan offers, eyes widening hopefully.

“…We could?”

“Consistency is always useful!” His companion beams, hands on his hips. “Just bet on rolling the lowest number!”

Well…

“…That’s not a bad idea,” Xie Lian mumbles, rubbing his chin. “Alright—I’ll try it.”

“Oh!” Before he can walk away, the Wind Master catches him by the arm.

“When you place your bet—put something really serious up as collateral, alright?”

“Oh…” Xie Lian tilts his head, thinking. “Why?”

“Just trust me!”

He supposes Shi Qingxuan has earned that much, so he agrees with little protest, approaching one of the gambling tables.

“Excuse me?” He leans over to one of the croupiers with a polite smile, “Could I play a round?”

“…Of course, sir,” the employee smiles, bowing deeply. To everyone else, their manner seems rather callous and rude—but to the prince, the workers are exceptionally courteous.

“Please, take a seat.”

The croupier pulls out a stool for him, and as Xie Lian sits, he asks—

“Could I bet on the lowest numbers, or does it have to be odds and evens?”

“You can bet however you wish, sir,” the ghost replies. “What’s your stake?”

“Ah…” Xie Lian thinks on it.

Something serious? He doesn’t have any wealth to bet, nor would betting years of his life do any good. He’s immortal, after all. And he certainly isn’t willing to risk someone else…And if he offered a limb, that wouldn’t work either…

In his experience (unfortunately, he has quite a bit of it) when one cuts off the limb of a heavenly official, it’ll just disintegrate over time, and regrow on the original owner’s body.

But, in order to win a substantial prize, he has to bet something useful…

Finally, he comes to a conclusion, and in his defense—

“…My body,” Xie Lian replies quickly, not seeing the way that the croupier, undead, somehow grows even more pale. “Is that enough?”

—he means it in the most innocent way possible. Like physical labor. He’s good at that!

There’s a slight, nearly imperceptible shift in the atmosphere, and from the crowd behind him—Shi Qingxuan chokes, using his fan to cover his face, flicking it back and forth nervously.

“…Of course!” The croupier replies with a nervous laugh. “B-by all means, sir, go ahead…”

Xie Lian nods, taking the smooth, polished black dice cup in his hands, and really—he knows he shouldn’t be nervous, he’s never rolled higher than snake eyes in all his—

/Clack!/

/Clack!/

“What’d I get?”

The croupier swallows dryly, leaning over. “…Two sixes, sir.”

“…” Xie Lian sits there, staring down at the dice blindly, muttering, “That figures.”

From behind him, Shi Qingxuan drops his face into his hands miserably.

“…Can I roll agai—?”

“Ah, I’m sorry to interrupt sir—but our master has offered to play a round with you himself!”

Xie Lian’s eyes flicker up in Hua Cheng’s direction underneath his hood, somewhat wary, but…

It was foolish, to think the Ghost King wouldn’t notice his presence. Is he going to be angry that Xie Lian created such a disruption? Even if it wasn’t technically his fault…

“…Alright,” he agrees, starting to shake the cup again, but before he can actually roll, the attendant stops him.

“Our master says that you’re shaking the dice improperly,” the ghost explains, “he’s offered to teach you.”

Xie Lian stops, raising an eyebrow.

It’s not like he has a lot of gambling experience—or, well, any gambling experience, but—

“…Oh, really?”

“Yes, he says you can go on up.”

To where he’s seated, in a curtained lounge above the rest of the players—always watching, but none dare to approach.

Even if he wanted to—Xie Lian is hardly in a position to refuse.

“Alright,” he murmurs, keeping his cup in hand as he moves over to where he assumes the steps are, and…

Just as he starts to feel for them with his feet, the staircase starts to glow with silver spiritual power.

“…” The god can’t help but smile, making his way up. San Lang really is always so considerate, isn’t he?

When he reaches the top step, the figure that has been watching since he arrived steps to the edge of the curtains, reaching out and parting them with one hand.

One slips underneath Xie Lian’s where it’s holding the dice cup—larger than it was before, and he can’t help but be reminded of the first time they met, in the bridal sedan, realizing…

That red thread is still wrapped around Hua Cheng’s third finger, tied into an affinity knot.

His skin is far colder to the touch now than it was before—but not unpleasantly so—and when his other hand comes to rest around Xie Lian’s where it grasps the cup, it completely envelops his fingers.

‘Next time, I’ll meet you in my true form.’

Xie Lian’s ears burn.

Is this…?

“Would you like to bet on the highest number, or the lowest?” Hua Cheng asks, his tone low and gentle—as it always is, with him—but it seems to startle the ghosts below.

“…Have we been rolling the dice wrong this entire time?”

“Is there really a right way to do it?!”

Xie Lian clears his throat, swallowing hard. “Ah…the highest,” he mutters, considering that was what he rolled last.

“Alright,” Hua Cheng agrees easily, his lips turning up into a soft smile. “I’ll go first, then.”

Xie Lian nods wordlessly as the ghost king shakes the dice.

Once, twice—and when the cup is lifted and the dice land against his palm, Xie Lian can feel from the carved grooves which numbers came up—a five and a six.

“…What on EARTH kind of luck is that?!” Lang Qianqiu glares, slowly revolving over head like a demented ceiling ornament.

Xie Lian doesn’t pay him any mind, taking the cup on his own, trying to mimic Hua Cheng’s movements as best as he can, but—

“No,” the Ghost King shakes his head, covering Xie Lian’s hands with his own, “not like that—let me show you.”

“Ah…”

Xie Lian’s tongue feels almost like it’s gotten stuck to the roof of his mouth from the nerves—even though he has no idea why. It’s—

It’s just San Lang, it’s fine.

“Okay…” he mumbles, dipping his chin down as the Ghost King shakes the cup between his hands, unhurried.

Of course—he’s utterly focused on what he’s doing, focused on the way Hua Cheng’s hands move, the rattling of the dice inside the cup.

But the calamity—he’s just watching Xie Lian’s face with soft eyes, his smile warm.

“See? Just like that.”

Xie Lian lifts the cup, and really, he should be disappointed, but…rolling two threes in this situation is far better than what he could have hoped for.

Still—he looks up at Hua Cheng, slightly sheepish, “I’m sorry, I lost…”

His cheeks tingle when the ghost king leans close—

“Don’t be sorry—that was just practice.” He murmurs, fangs flashing between his lips as he speaks. “I’m teaching you right now.”

Well—that’s very patient of him. Xie Lian doesn’t think he’d mind if Hua Cheng wanted to teach him other things—

“Are practice rounds an option?!”

The ghosts below seem baffled—annoyed, even—by the exceptions being made for the prince, but Xie Lian doesn’t pay any mind to that.

“The master must be in a real good mood today…”

Hadn’t those women before said something about Hua Cheng being in an awful mood? What changed?

One eye flickers up, staring down at the crowd sharply. “Quiet,” he murmurs—and to Xie Lian, he sounds calm, but—

The prince can’t see the gleam of the Ghost King’s fangs, intimidating the entire room into silence.

“Now,” he looks back down at Xie Lian, gentle as ever—

“Would you like to try again?”

“…” He nods—a little more quickly than he means to in his nervousness, and the ghost king’s smile widens as he guides him to shake the cup once more.

This time, it’s lifted to reveal two fours.

“See? You did even better this time.”

Xie Lian nods slowly, watching his increasing luck with growing surprise. Is he actually learning the trick? Honestly, he’s just letting Hua Cheng move his hands however he wants, but…

There are some knowing giggles in the crowd, and Xie Lian can’t help but wonder if he’s being teased.

“San Lang…” he murmurs, his cheeks slightly flushed, and the ghost king shushes him softly, giving his hands a gentle squeeze.

“Don’t worry about them—roll again.”

Of course, he doesn’t dare refuse him—and when he does, two fives appear in his hand.

Lang Qianqiu, who just so happens to have been slowly revolving into the angle to be able to see, huffs. “Don’t fall for it! He’s clearly cheating somehow!”

That draws offended shouts from the crowd.

“Shut up, our lord would never cheat!”

“He’s being generous, showing the newcomer a secret technique!”

“It’s been working, aren’t you paying attention?!”

Xie Lian can’t help but smile. The ghost king really is beloved, isn’t he?

Ignoring all of the chatter, Hua Cheng continues, “I think you’re ready to play for real—but gege, I have a question for you.”

Xie Lian doesn’t see the way Shi Qingxuan and Lang Qianqiu start at the familiarity in The Ghost King’s time. He just looks up, raising an eyebrow. “What is it?”

“When you mentioned your stake earlier…”

The god blinks innocently underneath his hood, “You mean my body?”

He can hear the smile in the calamity’s voice when he replies. “Yes—do you mind explaining what you meant by that?”

“Oh…” Xie Lian frowns, his brow creasing with thought. “Well—if you need any chores done, or something like that, I’m pretty good with my hands…”

There’s another round of giggling from below, and Hua Cheng sounds like he’s biting back a chuckle himself. “That’s what I thought you meant.”

Xie Lian frowns. What’s so funny…? Before he can wonder too much, the ghost king continues.

“But I’m afraid I don’t have much of a need for manual labor…”

Xie Lian grimaces. Of course—that’s obvious. He probably has countless servants for that sort of thing. “I’m afraid I really don’t have anything else to offer…”

Hua Cheng thinks it over. “Oh, I don’t know…”

His eye gleams softly in the light. “I can think of a thing or two.”

He sounds almost devious, and Xie Lian can’t help but feel a prick of curiosity. “Oh? Like what?”

The answer he receives nearly blows the god’s mind completely out of the water.

“A kiss would be plenty.”

The prince starts, his eyes widening. A…really—?

From overhead, Lang Qianqiu manages to overhear that much, and he scowls. “What kind of SCOUNDREL—!”

Hua Cheng snaps his fingers, eyes never leaving Xie Lian’s face, and General Tai Hua falls silent, suddenly gagged.

“I…” Xie Lian clears his throat, his cheeks burning up. “That’s…ah…”

As he struggles through his answer, Hua Cheng’s tone turns gentle, lowering to the point where others cannot overhear. “Don’t worry, dianxia—you can change the stake if you’d like.”

“T-that’s allowed?”

“Not usually,” the Ghost King admits. “But I’m aware of his highness’s cultivation method. I wouldn’t ask anything of him that he was uncomfortable with.”

Oh. He—

He’s presuming that, because of Xie Lian’s cultivation method, he’s mortified by intimacy.

Which he is. But he doesn’t particularly enjoy the fact that everyone he encounters either presumes the opposite based on unsavory rumors, or treats him like a child. He’s eight centuries old, after all.

And, to Hua Cheng’s surprised—the crown prince of Xianle looks slightly…

…Offended.

“I’ll have you know,” he whispers, his cheeks turning a shade of bright pink, “I’m not completely inexperienced, San Lang.”

The Ghost King’s eyebrows shoot up sharply, “Forgive me, dianxia,” he murmurs, “I had no idea.”

“Yes, well…I-I’ve kissed someone before.”

Hua Cheng’s tone turns to that of amused surprise, “Really?”

Xie Lian takes that amusement for thinking that the Ghost King doesn’t believe him—

(Just the opposite, in fact—Hua Cheng believes him wholeheartedly.)

—and he can admit, coming from him, it doesn’t sound particularly believable.

“Really,” he mumbles, speaking very quietly, but intently. “…With a man,” he adds emphatically. A detail he would normally be too uncomfortable to add, but, well—

Hua Cheng is the one asking for a kiss, so he’s obviously, as one of Xie Lian’s former students would phrase it, ‘open minded.’

“Heavens, dianxia, you’re making me blush…”

He’s saying that, but Xie Lian is the one turning so red, he feels like he might faint.

“Stop teasing me, San Lang, I’m being serious…” he grumbles.

“I’m not teasing,” the ghost king promises—but the barely restrained laughter in his tone makes Xie Lian prickle slightly. “But his highness doesn’t have to push himself—”

Between Hua Cheng and Jun Wu, honestly.

“I’m not some sheltered princess that’s never left home before,” the god mutters, lips turning down into a frown, or, well—

No, honestly—with the way his lower lip is jutting out—it’s a pout.

(Xie Lian hasn’t pouted since he was 16.)

“I’ve already told you, I’ve done it before—and it was very i…intimate, so…” he tries to tack on that last part with confidence, but his voice wobbles slightly, sheepish, and he’s left even more embarrassed and off kilter than he was before.

If Hua Cheng was smiling any wider, his face might break. “Intimate? Goodness…”

“San Lang…”

“If dianxia really wants to keep the original stakes, I won’t deny him.”

Xie Lian feels a little lightheaded.

Was that what his protests sounded like?!

“I just…don’t want San Lang changing the rules on my account,” the prince mumbles, dipping his chin—even though they weren’t making eye contact to begin with. “That isn’t fair to everyone else.”

“Hmmm…” The ghost king thinks it over.

“I suppose you have a point. Can I ask one dianxia one more question?”

Xie Lian nods, stiffening slightly when Crimson Rain Sought Flower leans in rather close, to the point where his lips are beside the god’s ear—

“You’ve only ever kissed one person?”

Well. Only one of them was willing, and it’s the only one that Xie Lian is willing to count.

“…Yes,” he mumbles, unsure as to why Hua Cheng would ask, other than to tease him—

Then he hears a low, distinctly pleased chuckle, and he can’t explain why, but…

He shivers.

“He sounds like a lucky man.”

/Thud./

Xie Lian’s heart jumps unsteadily, and his head starts to spin, and—

Hua Cheng must be teasing him, right?

“San—?”

“Well,” the ghost king returns to normal speaking volume, “now that we’ve settled the stakes—go ahead and roll, dianxia.”

Lang Qianqiu struggles valiantly under his bonds—likely because he doesn’t want Xie Lian ‘sullying his honor’ for the martial god’s freedom, but…well…it’s already settled.

The prince nods, swallowing hard as he shakes the cup, Hua Cheng’s hands still covering his own.

The cup rattles three times—and instead of trying to mimic the ghost king’s movements, Xie Lian simply allows Hua Cheng’s hands to guide him completely.

/Clack!/

/Clack!/

/Clack!/

He doesn’t dare lift the cup himself to check, but Hua Cheng does—

Revealing two sixes.

Xie Lian’s jaw drops in shocked confusion. He…won?

Conversely, Hua Cheng clicks his tongue in dismay—but it’s very clearly for show.

“Well, would you look at that…” He muses, raising his eyebrows. “I lost…”

Now, it seems a little painfully clear that he had every intention of just calling them ‘practice rounds’ until Xie Lian won—and the prince can’t help but wonder—

If that was really what Hua Cheng intended, why tease Xie Lian so much over the stakes?

Still—a deal is a deal.

With a flick of the ghost king’s wrist, Lang Qianqiu is sent crashing to the ground, swearing upon landing.

(To Xie Lian’s embarrassment, he honestly forgot that’s what he was originally betting over.)

Giving Hua Cheng a grateful nod, he walks back down the steps to check on the younger god, kneeling down beside him, “Are you alright?”

“…Thanks to you,” Lang Qianqiu grumbles, rubbing his head. “Good thing you won! That man clearly had nefarious intentions…”

If he actually had such intentions, Xie Lian couldn’t have won Lang Qianqiu back, no matter how hard he tried…

/Clink!/

The familiar tinkling of bells cuts through Xie Lian’s train of thought—and as Hua Cheng steps out of the curtains, he hears an array of gasps.

“That skin is mighty fine!”

“It’s killing me! Did he have to pick something so delectable?”

“So tall!”

The ghosts crow among themselves, and Xie Lian—he can’t help but feel more and more curious, because…after the promise Hua Cheng made to him the last time they spoke…

He’s the only one in the room who knows that this is Crimson Rain Sought Flower’s true form.

And, ironically enough, he’s also the only one in the room that can’t actually see it.

But for the first time in a while—Xie Lian is slightly frustrated by that fact.

All the while, Lang Qianqiu is grumbling about his treatment, likely to say something more to offend the ghosts around him—and Xie Lian sighs, helping the prince to his feet. “Best not to say anything more, your highness—let’s go…”

They make their way back to Shi Qingxuan, but before they can leave the gambling hall entirely, a voice calls after them—

“Hold it.”

The three stop immediately. Shi Qingxuan and Lang Qianqiu out of wariness—and Xie Lian out of curiosity.

All around them, ghost are calling out that it’s best if Hua Cheng doesn’t let them leave. After all, who knows what secrets these new comers are hiding? What if they’re spies?

But, in spite of Xie Lian’s growing anxiety—the ghost king sounds fairly laid back.

“Aren’t you going to pay out as well?” When Xie Lian only stares in blank confusion, the ghost king reminds him, “You lost a round gege, remember?”

The god frowns, his brow furrowed. “I thought you said those were practice?”

“They were,” Hua Cheng agrees easily.

“But you lost a bet before that at the long table, remember?”

Oh.

Xie Lian had completely forgotten, but…he supposes he did.

Does that mean he really intends to—?

“He’s clearly changing the rules to suit his needs…” Lang Qianqiu grumbles, crossing his arms.

“You don’t have to listen to him, your highness! We can fight our way out of this! I won’t get captured again…”

Even if Hua Cheng has changed the rules—it’s only been to Xie Lian’s’ own benefit.

“No…” The god shakes his head, placing a hand on the younger prince’s shoulder.

“I already made an agreement, I won’t go back on my word.”

Lang Qianqiu can’t argue with his reasoning—offering it begrudging respect as the ghost king walks towards them, the bells on his boots tinkling gently with every step.

/Clink!/

/Clink!/

/Clink!/

With each sound of the bells, Xie Lian feels his own heart speeding up in response, listening as the ghost king draws closer and closer. And as he does, he finds himself wondering if Hua Cheng might do the gentlemanly thing and kiss him on the hand, or the cheek, but…

Then there are long, cool fingers delicately grasping his chin, and all thoughts of the ghost king demurring for Xie Lian’s sake disappear.

And even though Hua Cheng’s touch is distinctly cold—Xie Lian finds himself burning up, struggling to get enough air into his lungs.

A thumb slides over his lower lip, and the prince can’t help but part them, his face flushed, eyes wide as they can be underneath his hood, filled with nervousness, and…anticipation, if he’s being honest, as the ghost king leans in.

But those lips don’t land on his. No, they remain barely more of a hairs-width away from his own, whispering—

“But I think I’d rather save my prize for when we don’t have an audience,” he murmurs—and for a moment, Xie Lian is too dazed to understand what he’s saying.

“Is that alright with you, dianxia?”

Xie Lian takes a moment to respond, his knees wobbling—and to his embarrassment, Hua Cheng actually has to grasp his elbow with his other hand to steady him.

When the prince finally does answer—his voice is rather hoarse.

“T…that’s fine…”

Hua Cheng smiles, his fingertips lingering on the god’s chin for a moment, and while he doesn’t need to take in air, Xie Lian still feels the ghost king’s cool breath against his lips before he leans back, letting him go.

And while Xie Lian and Shi Qingxuan both seem stunned to the point of speechlessness—Lang Qianqiu is no such thing, crossing his arms and glaring.

“If he was going to let us go, did he really have to make a scene? What’s the point?”

The prince fights the urge to smack his forehead in exasperation, wishing that the ghost king had left the prince of Yong’an gagged when he released him from the chains…

A few ghosts around them hiss defensively, ready to defend the lord of their city—but there’s no need.

Hua Cheng glances back over his shoulder, eye flashing dangerously as he raises one hand, making the surrounding ghosts fall silent in an easy show of obedience.

“I think you’ll find that I’m fair,” the ghost king murmurs, hands clasped behind his back, his shoulders squared, “but when someone encroaches on what’s mine…” His fangs peek through again, glinting under the lantern light.

“I become a rather unreasonable man.”

And considering what they had done—coming into the ghost king’s territory—his place of business, no less—and causing a scene…Xie Lian doesn’t think Hua Cheng’s reaction was unfair at all.

Of course—any subtext in that statement is lost on him.

It’s only when they leave the gambler’s den that he finds himself able to think clearly, taking in deep breaths of the open air as they make their way down the street, and once they’re a few dozen meters away, Xie Lian hears the Wind Master mutter—

“…What the fuck?”

Xie Lian turns his head, his eyebrows raising, wondering what could have the younger god sounding so…scandalized isn’t the right word, but certainly shocked. “What do you—?”

He can’t finish the question before there’s a commotion coming from down the street—

Screaming.

Which is a somewhat common sound in ghost city, but…

“HELP ME!” A small child cries, “GET IT AWAY!”

“T-that can’t be what I think it is—!”

Xie Lian listens closer, curious, and then—

“LOOK AT ITS FACE!”

The god pales, his knees going weak for an entirely different reason.

“…Oh no,” he mutters, hurrying in that direction, pushing through the crowd.

“Your highness?” Shi Qingxuan attempts to follow after him. “What is it?”

“A—!”

“HE REALLY DOESN’T WANT US TAKING OFF THOSE BANDAGES, DOES HE?”

It has to be him, doesn’t it?

“A personal matter!”

Xie Lian mutters, pushing through the ghosts even more desperately. “You two keep investigating! I’ll meet up with you later!”

“But—! Your highness!” Lang Qianqiu frowns. “Won’t you have a hard time, separated? Let—let us go with you!”

The prince’s heart squeezes.

Even after all this time, he really is a kind boy, isn’t he?

“I’ll be fine!”

After all, this is Hua Cheng’s territory, and the Ghost King knows that he’s here. Xie Lian doubts any serious harm will come to him.

“Just stay with the Wind Master!”

Hopefully, Shi Qingxuan can stop him from getting into any more trouble.

And just like that—the god disappears into the crowd, leaving Lang Qianqiu and Shi Qingxuan standing there, baffled.

“…well,” the wind Master sighs. “He’ll be fine—we need to figure out our next move.”

They move to the side, the streets around them bustling loudly. Ghost City is an objectively beautiful place—filled with brightly colored stalls and lanterns, a full moon hanging overhead.

But it’s also chaotic—and for someone who can’t see—

Lang Qianqiu worries.

“…What next move?” He mutters, crossing his arms as he surveys the ghosts around them, “Shouldn’t we just wait for him to finish his business and meet up again?”

“That would be a waste of time, we don’t want to be idle in a place like this for long,” Shi Qingxuan frowns.

Ming-Xiong has spoken to him of ghost city in the past. Apparently he visited once or twice when he was still alive—and he never seemed particularly interested in visiting when Shi Qingxuan suggested it, but—

He did warn the Wind Master that this place could be dangerous.

Especially for someone with something to hide.

As a matter of fact—he’s probably going to be furious when he finds out that Shi Qingxuan was here.

He tries to pretend that he doesn’t care, but honestly—he’s just as bad as gege. Overprotective, treating Shi Qingxuan like a child

And if that was true, would the Heavenly Emperor be sending him on an important mission like this?

No, he doesn’t think so.

Though Shi Qingxuan suspects he must know something, because he didn’t respond when the Wind Master said good morning in their private array.

To be fair—he never used to answer at first. But now, the Wind Master has become accustomed to receiving at least a noncommittal grunt.

But even if he is mad—forget him! That’s totally unfair, Shi Qingxuan is four centuries old! He can—!

“…Lord Wind Master?”

Right. The plan.

“Well,” he rubs his forehead. “Thanks to you, our identities have already been exposed—and given the seriousness of the situation, and the fact that Crimson Rain already knows we’re with his highness…”

(Not to mention the fact that he’s already seen Shi Qingxuan as a woman.)

“There’s not much of a point in leaving and trying to re-enter with different disguises.” The Wind Master mutters. “We’re better off figuring out where Crimson Rain is, then having his highness go there and try to mine him for information directly when we reunite—”

“We can’t!”

Shi Qingxuan pauses, sending him an annoyed glance. “And why is that?”

“Well—regardless of how you or I feel about it, those two are clearly friends,” Lang Qianqiu explains, eyes wide.

… ‘Friends’ is one way to put it…

“We can’t ask his highness to be insincere to a friend!”

Well.

Lang Qianqiu might be sincere to a fault, but at least he doesn’t pick and choose who those morals apply to.

Shi Qingxuan pinches the bridge of his nose with a sigh, and, in spite of the situation—he wishes Ming-Xiong was here.

He’s always been better at making plans.

Xie Lian stumbles, glancing around, disoriented again by the maze of lights and colors, all of them blending together, but—

No matter how hard he listens, he can’t hear anyone screaming about the child anymore.

Now, it’s just a crowd of ghosts shouting at him.

“What do you think you’re doing?!”

“He just tore through the entire street!”

“MY SOUP STAND!” An oversized ghost with the head and torso of a chicken squawks, grabbing the prince by the collar. “HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO MAKE A LIVING NOW?!”

“I…ah…”

Xie Lian smiles apologetically, feet dangling. “I’m sorry, I forgot my own strength—!”

He’s dislodged when a larger ghost, this one nine feet tall, half man, half pig, gives the chicken ghost a shove.

“GET IN LINE! HE DESTROYED MY MERCHANDISE FIRST!”

“WELL, I’m THE ONE WHO CAUGHT HIM!”

“And no one wants your disgusting bathwater ANYWAY!” The pig sneers, earning an irritated cry from his avian counterpart.

“I OUGHTA MAKE YOU INTO A ROAST!”

“ExCUSE ME?!”

Xie Lian finds himself being yanked back and forth between the two ghosts like an oversized chew toy, just as a voice cuts through the din;

“Settle down—let him go.”

Immediately, all of the ghosts around fall silent in a hush, and Xie Lian finds himself glum.

Probably just another, even more powerful ghost whose property he’s destroyed accidentally in his Wild goose chase. Like a tiger. Or a bear. Poor San Lang, he really has caused such a mess—

“It’s the Waning Moon Officer, careful now…”

…The what?

Both ghosts set Xie Lian down, and when he finally musters the nerve to peek out between his eyelids, he catches sight of a deep, purple aura standing before him—distinctly different from the rest of the crowd—

Because it isn’t that of a ghost, or a human.

No—it’s that of a…

…Heavenly Official?

But it’s constrained, with a tight, burning black band around the middle—one that Xie Lian is painfully familiar. It’s one of the only parts of himself that he can see, whenever he looks down at his own ankle.

A cursed shackle.

But…what is an exiled heavenly official doing here?

Before Xie Lian can wonder much more, the officer bows his head politely, “Excuse me, sir—the lord of the city has requested your presence in Paradise Manor.”

…He means San Lang?

“…Paradise Manor?” The god questions.

“Hua Chengzhu’s private residence,” the officer explains. He’s entirely in black, hair pulled into a neat, simple ponytail, wearing a horned, crying mask that obscures his face. “Please, follow me.”

And in this case—Xie Lian doesn’t have a reason not to.

After all—his attempts at looking for the boy were clearly futile, and if he stays out here, he has a better chance of ending up in a brawl…

As such, he makes his way after this ‘half moon officer,’ sticking close in his shadow as they make their way through ghost city.

And even if Xie Lian can’t see Paradise Manor…

It’s beautiful.

There must be gardens, because the pleasant, floral aroma is already wafting in his direction, a contrast from the city, which smells of soot, alcohol, and cooking meat.

Now, Xie Lian smells lotus, roses, and Zhi Zhi shrubs—and he can’t help but smile, remembering the meaning behind Hua Cheng’s name—

City of flowers.

And for the first time in so many centuries, Xie Lian remembers…

Back in Xianle—the Royal Gardens smelled the same way.

The gardens where he used to run and play with his friends as a child. Chasing butterflies. Laying back and looking up at the stars, promising not to let go of the grass.

He showed them to Hong’er, once. When the boy was still injured from being dragged behind Qi Rong’s carriage

He wasn’t there for very long, but Xie Lian still remembers how awestruck the boy seemed, staring at the beauty all around him. Like he’d never seen anything like it before.

When they step through the gates, the rest of the noise from the city seems to fall away.

There’s only a gentle breeze, soft chimes echoing through the air—like the bells on Hua Cheng’s boots, but slightly deeper in tone.

Long reflection pools bracket the courtyard, ghost fires floating gently overheat, illuminating the lotus blossoms underneath in a soft glow.

Xie Lian smiles at the sight of the little flames, his heart aching as he remembers…

The prince swallows hard, reaching up to push his hair behind his ears, remembering the flower Wu Ming tucked there, all those years ago.

Xie Lian kept it until it turned to dust, but…

It hurts, sometimes, that he doesn’t have anything to remember Wu Ming by. Not even Fangxin, he lost that when…

“…The ghost fires…is Hua Cheng keeping them here, or—?”

“No, sir.” The ghost officer replies calmly. “They’re waiting.”

“Oh,” the prince frowns, confused.

“…Waiting for what?”

“Safe passage,” the mysterious official has a pleasant voice, Xie Lian decides. Soft, patient—unimposing. He’d probably make a rather good tutor, or maybe a librarian. “Given and taken.”

Xie Lian waits for him to explain more—but he doesn’t.

When they reach the steps to the manor, Xie Lian has to stop himself and remember that this isn’t a meeting hall or some grand palace, even if it feels like one—this is someone’s home.

As such, he kneels down, trying to do the polite thing by taking off his boots, but pauses.

When he was walking here with Yin Yu, many of the ghosts were marveling over the fact that Hua Cheng was inviting a guest inside. Apparently—he never has any visitors. Would he have something for guests—?

“If his highness would like to leave his boots on, my lord wouldn’t mind.”

“No, no…” Xie Lian shakes his head. “I would never want to be rude, I just wasn’t sure if…”

Well, he supposes he could just go barefoot, couldn’t he?

“There are slippers for guests if his highness would like them,” the officer murmurs, reaching out to offer them.

…Oh.

Well, that solves that.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

He slips out of his own boots carefully, setting them by the door, and while the officer told Xie Lian that the slippers were for ‘guests’ somehow—

They seem to fit the prince like a glove.

It really is an odd coincidence!

When he makes his way through the hallways of paradise manor, following Yin Yu’s lead, he can’t help but marvel over how smooth the floors are—not so much so that one has to worry about slipping, but polished to perfection.

Even the acoustics are elegant, his footsteps echoing.

Xie Lian has never been on such a place where every element seems designed to appeal to every sense—not just sight alone, and the thought makes him smile.

He likes it here. If Hua Cheng wouldn’t think it too much of a bother—Xie Lian thinks he might visit him again soon.

Finally, he’s led into what certainly feels like a throne room. It must be, after all—it’s meant for a king.

And after the hustle and bustle of dozens of servants passes through, Xie Lian hears a soft clap—and they all fall silent.

“Gege,” there’s that voice again—pleased.

“Welcome.” He sounds pleasantly surprised, rising up from a black jade divan that could likely seat a dozen people, rather than just him.

He sounds pleasantly surprised—though Xie Lian isn’t quite sure how he could be.

“We didn’t get the chance to speak openly, before.”

Not because Xie Lian didn’t want to.

“Yes, well…” He shifts slightly with awkwardness, trying not to focus on…everything else that happened in the gambler’s den, particularly towards the end, “you were acting like you didn’t know who I was…”

“I hope I didn’t offend you,”

In that sense, he sounds completely sincere. “Tai Hua was with his highness, and I thought revealing our prior connection might cause trouble for him.”

Xie Lian doesn’t know which to focus on—the words ‘prior connection,’ or the fact that Hua Cheng did a terrible job hiding it.

“And you had this,” Xie Lian doesn’t realize how close the ghost king has gotten until his fingertips toy with the hem of the God’s hood, still covering half of his face. “So, I thought you might be trying to be discreet.”

“Well…” Xie Lian bites his lip.

“I was, but not from San Lang.”

Of course, it doesn’t even take him a minute to realize how that sounds.

“Because—well—you would recognize me anyway—” He stumbles, hearing a soft chuckle in response.

“His highness is right—I would know his likeness anywhere.”

Xie Lian pauses, lips parting slightly, because—

He’s certainly heard that before, but…

The prince squeezes his eyes shut, clearing his throat. “I wanted to thank you, for leaving this for me,” he mumbles, reaching up to touch the hairpiece carefully.

Hua Cheng’s gaze softens

“Though I wasn’t sure what I had done to deserve such a gift—”

“I simply thought dianxia would look lovely wearing it,” the ghost king replies, casually stopping Xie Lian’s heart in the process. “Of course, I was correct.”

Normally, Xie Lian isn’t particularly impacted by compliments to his appearance. Really, there’s only one time that someone called him beautiful that he looks back on fondly, and that was a long time ago.

That being said—Hua Cheng…

Coming from him, it feels so…

“And what brings gege to Ghost City?”

It takes the prince a moment to answer—no, it takes him a moment to understand what Hua Cheng actually said, and when he does, it takes him even longer to answer.

He doesn’t want to lie to him—but can Xie Lian really just come out and say that he’s here on the emperor’s business? Even if his intentions were to protect Hua Cheng from suspicion, it still sounds…

“…Even if it wasn’t to just to me,” the ghost king adds, “I’m glad.”

Well—even if it wasn’t…

Xie Lian would be lying if he said that he wasn’t glad to see him.

“…You have a lovely home,” he offers, meaning that sincerely until Hua Cheng replies:

“It’s a residence, not a home.”

The prince arches an eyebrow. “Is there a difference?”

“A home is a place you share with family.” Hua Cheng replies with a shrug, hands clasped behind his back. “Anywhere else is simply a place to rest one’s head.”

By that standard, Xie Lian really hasn’t had much of a home since Hong’er lived with him in Puqi shrine.

Technically, he was with his parents for a few months after that, but…Xie Lian was so grief stricken, he hardly took the chances to enjoy their company.

“Do you live here alone, San Lang?”

He certainly does seem like the lone wolf type, but…

“Not…exactly.”

When Xie Lian sends the ghost king a curios look, he simply shrugs. “There used to be others who lived here, but…more often than not, it’s just me.”

Well—the prince can understand that predicament, but he certainly wouldn’t wish it upon Hua Cheng.

“Well then…”

The offer must seem a little ridiculous, and Xie Lian knows that—but he makes it anyway. “It definitely isn’t as elegant as this, but if you ever want to visit, the doors of Puqi shrine are always open to you.”

He doesn’t see the way Hua Cheng’s face utterly lights up.

“You’ll need to be careful, making offers like that—it won’t take me long to make a nuisance of myself.”

Xie Lian can’t help but smile, shaking his head. “San Lang could never be a nuisance…” Then he stops, remembering. “…San Lang?”

The ghost king hums contently in reply, “Hmm?”

Taking one cautious step forward, he asks, “This is your true form, correct?”

However briefly, the ghost king stiffens—almost as if he’s waiting for a reaction, and Xie Lian simply states;

“Do you mind if I…see? In my own way.”

Xie Lian doesn’t know why he feels so nervous about asking—it’s not as though Hua Cheng has ever denied him before. Then again—the prince has never asked him for much, so maybe he simply hasn’t seen the need to.

Surely, there must be a limit to how far he’s wiling to go to indulge him—no one is that generous.

Still, even now, he grants Xie Lian’s request without a single word of protest—though not by illuminating himself with spiritual power as he did the last time they met.

He seems to glean exactly what Xie Lian meant by ‘my own way,’ simply leaning forward slightly, hands clasped behind his back, replying—

“His highness is welcome to examine anything he likes, there’s no need to ask for my permission.”

“…” Xie Lian’s lips curve up into a small smile as he reaches up, surprised to find it’s further than he thought, rocking up onto the balls of his toes until Hua Cheng leans further down.

The ghosts in the gambler’s den weren’t exaggerating—he is rather tall, isn’t he?

“…Thank you,” he murmurs, sliding his palms over Hua Cheng’s cheeks, finding that his skin isn’t quite as cool as it was before—but Xie Lian has the sneaking suspicion that change is purely for his own benefit.

The calamity simply hums softly in response, a soft rumble under Xie Lian’s touch that leaves him momentarily distracted before he moves on, and…

In truth, the difference isn’t drastic. His jaw is sharper, slightly more squared. His nose is perfectly straight, slightly pointed.

His mouth—one that Xie Lian knows to be capable of being rather wicked, depending on the audience—is soft under his touch. And when the ghost king’s lips turn up—

Xie Lian can feel that dimple is still there, cutting into his right cheek—and the prince can’t help but smile back.

There’s also a slightly sharp point at the corner of his mouth, one that retreats the moment the god’s thumb brushes over it—and he raises an eyebrow.

“…San Lang, did you change your form a little bit just now?”

Hua Cheng shakes his head underneath Xie Lian’s hands.

“No, your highness—this is my true form, unaltered.”

“…I see,” Xie Lian murmurs, his eyebrows knitting together. “I just thought I felt…”

“They’re retractable.”

He—

Oh.

After a dazed moment of contemplation, Xie Lian realizes that Hua Cheng must be referring to…

“…I didn’t know ghosts had those,” he mumbles, feeling a little silly. “Well—human ones, I mean.”

Naturally the ghost of a bear or a wolf would half them, or snakes and the like—Wen Jiao probably had them as well, but he was a demon—

Then again, isn’t Hua Cheng also demonic—?

“Weaker ones don’t,” the calamity murmurs in response—and Xie Lian supposes that makes sense. After all, it’s not like ghosts often use spiritual tools in the way that gods do. More often than not, their physical forms are the actual weapons.

(Like Xuan Ji’s claws, for example.)

The thought of that makes him reach down to grasp one of Hua Cheng’s hands thoughtlessly, just to check his fingertips—finding them smooth, just like any normal man’s—

(Though his hands are noticeably larger than before, callouses more noticeable.)

And when Xie Lian feels the ghost king smirking under his other palm, his ears grow warm.

“Those are retractable as well, dianxia,” he murmurs, clearly reading the god’s intentions.

“…If San Lang is worried about making me uncomfortable, please don’t,” Xie Lian mumbles.

“Of course,” San Lang agrees. “But this is what they’re like, normally.”

“Really?”

“Well,” there’s a hint of amusement in his voice. “Most people don’t walk around with their tongues sticking out, do they?”

Well—Xie Lian supposes not.

“But if you’d like to see them—?”

“It’s fine,” the god mumbles, releasing Hua Cheng’s hand when he realizes how long he’s been holding it, turning his attention back to the ghost’s face, “I don’t want San Lang to be uncomfortable just to sate my curiosity…”

There’s immediate assurance—

“It isn’t uncomfortable, and his highness’s curiosity is a more than worthy cause.”

Xie Lian has already come to terms with the fact that Hua Cheng is somewhat of a shameless flirt—he’s dealt with those before.

He wishes the ghost wouldn’t do that while Xie Lian’s hands are all over his face. It makes it harder and harder to think straight, from what the prince can only assume must be embarrassment.

In any case, his hands roam slightly higher.

There, he finds the delicate shape of a closed eyelid, framed by dark, thick lashes—sharp brows—

And the shape of a leather eyepatch. Well maintained under his touch, though slightly worn from the passage of time.

“…San Lang?”

“Hmm?”

“Before…” Xie Lian bites his lip, wondering if this is the best time—or the best way—to bring up the subject, but… “When you first introduced yourself to me, and your were talking about how Crimson Rain Sought Flower lost his eye…”

‘Doing something stupid, probably.’

After a pause, Hua Cheng replies—

“If gege wants to know the story, I don’t mind telling it—though now probably isn’t the beset time.”

Xie Lian doesn’t mind that answer—after all, Hua Cheng said the same thing when Xie Lian asked him about his true form.

And, just as he promised, he showed it to the prince shortly after.

Finally, his fingers draw far up enough to reach Hua Cheng’s hairline, finding dark, silky locks forming into a widow’s peak. Not only that—it’s almost completely loose around his shoulders.

The only exception being a single braid with something smooth near the bottom, a bead of some sort—one that Xie Lian has often heard the ghost rolling between his fingertips.

His other hand is still pressed to Hua Cheng’s cheek, feeling the movement when he speaks—

“Well?”

It’s only then that Xie Lian seems to notice the fact that the ghost king’s hands landed on his waist at some point during his examination—lightly, but still present—

And now he’s waiting, somewhat expectantly.

But also, even if he sounds confident…

There’s an underlying note of anxiety there. As if—underneath all of the shameless flirting—he’s actually worried that Xie Lian might think…

The prince’s heart squeezes a little, his thumb unconsciously stroking over Hua Cheng’s cheek.

The word falls out of him effortlessly.

“Hand—”

And then he stops, catching himself before the second syllable can come out, his expression contorting slightly as he looks away.

What was he…?

He’s only known Hua Cheng for the span of two weeks, and he almost called him…

“…Dianxia?”

He’s only ever called one person that before. And he still remembers that face so well. The curve of his mouth. Every scar. The slightly crooked angle of his nose.

“…San Lang had nothing to be nervous about,” Xie Lian mumbles.

Hong’er feels so heavy against his chest now.

“I like his true form—very much.”

Actually—the prince feels guilty for the goosebumps on the back of his neck. Each skip of his heartbeat—it feels like a betrayal, somehow.

“…Like?” the ghost king replies—and he’s quiet.

Quiet enough for Xie Lian to worry.

Because even if he’s someone who has always taken his own beauty for granted—Xie Lian has long since known what it was like to feel a sort of hideousness.

Maybe not in his skin, but certainly in his bones. He’s felt grotesque. Tainted. Unworthy.

Xie Lian doesn’t want anyone to think he sees them that way—and certainly not someone that he—

Not someone that he respects.

“It’s perfect,” he mumbles, his palm still resting against Hua Cheng’s cheek, “I wouldn’t want San Lang to change a thing. So—you don’t have to wear a mask around me, not unless you want to.”

There’s a silence that lasts for several moments, and—

Xie Lian can’t see the look on the Ghost King’s face. How full his expression is—brimming with an open sort of adoration, struck with awe.

And honestly, what else could Hua Cheng be but awestruck, when the only thing in this world that he’s ever found to be truly beautiful deigns to call him perfect with such sincerity?

He’s quiet for so long, Xie Lian almost asks if he’s said something wrong, but—

“…Even the retractable features?”

He’s teasing, but with little sharpness—and Xie Lian cracks a breathless smile in response, a shaky laugh slipping from his throat as he nods.

“Of course!”

Still, they don’t part—and it’s only now that Xie Lian starts to notice something else

The position they’re in—with Hua Cheng’s hands on his waist, and Xie Lian’s on his face, standing so close like this….it’s…

It reminds him of what was said before, in the Gambler’s den.

About the Ghost King’s ‘prize.’

And…of the fact that they’re quite alone at the moment.

Hua Cheng raises an eyebrow, still holding himself perfectly still for Xie Lian’s benefit, bent over to meet him halfway—but there’s a small, amused smile on his face. “Your highness, is something on your mind?”

“…Um…” Xie Lian swallows dryly, his eyes wide.

“…There’s something I need San Lang’s help with,” he blurts out, clawing for anything less embarrassing than what he was actually thinking of. “If it’s not too much trouble—”

“On the contrary, this one is delighted that gege would ask.”

He sounds pointedly sincere about that.

“…There’s a boy,” the prince mumbles, “one I suspect might be from my own kingdom, long ago. He has scars from Human Face Disease.”

He can’t see the way the ghost king’s eyes narrow, but he can feel the way those hands tighten slightly on his waist. “How peculiar.”

Xie Lian nods, because it is—he hasn’t encountered any of the citizens from Xianle, ghost or otherwise, since he was rather young. “I’m afraid I didn’t handle it particularly well when I first came across him, so he ran from me—but I have reason to think he’s here in Ghost City.”

There’s a pause, and Xie Lian finds himself wondering if it was rude of him to ask—after all, even Ling Wen has struggled with tracking the boy down—

“But really, if it’s too much trouble—”

“Not at all,” Hua Cheng replies.

“He shouldn’t be difficult to find—there are ghosts here old enough to remember the plague.”

That strikes Xie Lian’s curiosity.

“Are you? Old enough to remember what it looks like, I mean.” He mumbles.

“…I am,” The ghost king agrees.

His tone sounds slightly…off.

Before Xie Lian can express any worry about that, however, the ghost king has a question of his own.

“Lang Qianqiu—was he left alone in the city?”

The prince shakes his head—even though the reminder of the trouble his former student caused makes him wince.

“No,” Xie Lian assures him quickly, “Lord Wind Master is with him—we got separated while I was looking for the boy…I’m sorry that he caused such a scene back there—”

“Dianxia had nothing to do with that,” Hua Cheng shakes his head. “There’s no need for an apology.”

Still, he can’t help but feel somewhat responsible…

“I’ll go ahead and clear his dead,” the calamity carries on with a shrug. “So long as he stays out of my sight, we won’t have any more problems.”

That…is easier said than done, but—

“My lord?”

The two men start—with Xie Lian taking a step back when he realizes how close they’re still standing to one another, Hua Cheng’s hands dropping from his waist.

“What is it?”

“The boy, we’ve found him.” Xie Lian’s eyebrows arch sharply.

Well—that was rather quick.

Given what a struggle it’s been to track the child down—Xie Lian wasn’t expecting the task to be completed so soon.

The man from before—the Waning Moon Officer, the ghosts in the market called him—leads the boy in by the arm. Not unkind, but firm in his grip.

“Well, there we are,” Hua Cheng smiles, clasping his hands behind his back. “What would dianxia like us to do with him, then?”

It seems to shock the servants in the hall, listening to Crimson Rain treating anyone with such deference—but Xie Lian doesn’t notice.

“Oh, don’t worry San Lang,” he murmurs, walking closer to the boy. “I can handle the rest from here, you’ve done more than enough.”

That draws a frown, but the ghost king says little more, watching as Xie Lian kneels beside the young man, tilting his head back with a warm smile.

“Hello,” he murmurs, not reaching out, hoping not to startle him. “Do you remember me? I’m sorry we didn’t get off to a good start, before.”

The boy trembles in the Ghost Officer’s grip, his head hanging low—but he nods.

Not that Xie Lian can see—but he senses the movement.

“…” The prince turns his head in the officer’s direction. “I think you can let him go now, he won’t run. Is he hurt at all?”

“…No, sir,” the dark clothed man replies softly, “His bandages are a bit dirty, but otherwise he’s alright.”

“Well,” Xie Lian offers the child a wry smile, reaching into the pockets of his robes. “I always happen to have extras.”

Given that his throat and wrists are covered in the wrappings—that makes the boy let out a cautious little laugh.

“Your highness…” Hua Cheng frowns.

“There’s no need to trouble yourself, I can—”

“It’s alright, San Lang.” Xie Lian assures him firmly. “I’d rather do it myself.”

After all—he did promise to look after him, when Xiao Ying passed.

He’s quick about it—after all, he has quite a bit of experiences with such things.

The child is still, not trying so hard to get away from him, now—and when it’s finished, Hua Cheng intercedes again, “He’s probably tired, after all of that commotion. Let us take him to one of the guest rooms so he can rest.”

This time, Xie Lian sees no reason to protest.

When he’s taken away, he expects to speak to Hua Cheng more, maybe to try and ask him outright if he’s seen any injured officials in the area, but…

“Apologies, gege,” the ghost king murmurs. “Something has been brought to my attention that needs to be dealt with.”

“Oh,” Xie Lian frowns, his expression tinged with concern. “Is everything alright?”

“It’s nothing that gege needs to concern himself with.” Hua Cheng steps forward, taking the prince’s hand so that he can lead him to the divan where the ghost king was resting when he arrived.

“Feel free to wait here until I return, the servants will fetch you anything you’d like, if you call.”

“San Lang, that’s really too much—”

“It’s nothing, gege—really.”

He strides from the room, leaving Xie Lian sitting there, contemplative.

The divan is surprisingly plush—and huge. Even when Xie Lian leans his back against the cushions as it’s intended, his feet dangle above the floor. It seems like it must be a rather ridiculous sight in his mind’s eye, so he pulls them back up, curling his legs underneath him.

Something about this is oddly familiar—yet alien at the same time.

No one waits on him anymore, and hasn’t in centuries. But still, the old habit is still there.

Xie Lian finds himself raising one hand—not with a request in mind, but just remembering how a simple gesture like that could send an entire flurry of servants rushing his way, asking about anything and everything he could possibly need.

It’s been a long time, since he thought about that. In part because it’s been decades since he missed it.

Xie Lian misses his loved ones now, not the wealth, the privilege, or the titles. Those things matter very little, when one stares nearly a millennia in the face.

But it’s also been centuries since he was inside a palace—or even something close to it. The last time he was in a palace, he…

Xie Lian’s fingertips rise up to his face, lightly brushing over the bridge of his nose—remembering the golden mask that once sat there.

Something stirs him from his thoughts, then—the sound of a laugh.

No, that’s not the right word—it’s more like a giggle, that of a child.

“…” The prince raises an eyebrow, shackles gleaming as he peers around, looking for signs of a ghost nearby. “…Hello? Is someone there?”

No one answers—and Xie Lian supposes none of the servants Hua Cheng left behind would, not unless he made a specific request. Most of them seemed petrified by the idea of being a nuisance.

But then he hears the sound of feet on marble, like someone is hurrying down the corridor.

“…” Xie Lian braces his palms against the divan, pushing until his feet finally return to the floor, listening closely.

He doubts it could be the child he was looking for—he might have been slightly more relaxed this time around, but he certainly wasn’t the playful type either.

Paradise Manor is a beautiful place. Mysterious, enticing. Not so different from the man who built it.

But, just the same, it leaves the Prince of Xianle full of questions.

Why does it feel familiar? And what were the ghost fires out in the front courtyard waiting for?

‘Safe passage, given and taken.’ That was what the Ghost Officer said—but what on earth does that mean? And why does Hua Cheng have an exiled official working under him to begin with? And—

There’s another giggle, echoing down the hall, drawing him forward.

…Hua Cheng was the one who said that more often then not, he was the only one who lived in this place. But why does Xie Lian get the distinct feeling that statement may not have been entirely true?

He opens his mouth to call out again when he rounds the corner—but then he stops

There’s an aura at the end of the hallway—familiar to him now. Not only for the deep purple shade—but for the fact that it doesn’t seem to belong.

It’s that of the half moon officer.

Xie Lian assumes that the man must not have seen him, as he doesn’t acknowledge him.

And instead of calling over to him, Xie Lian finds himself shrinking back, effectively hiding himself around the corner. After all—he doesn’t want to seem like he was snooping, he wasn’t, but—

Isn’t hiding more suspicious in that case?

Before he can come down on a particular answer, Xie Lian hears the now familiar rattling of dice.

/Clack!/

/Clack!/

When they land—it’s with a metallic thud, like they’re landing in some sort of dish.

/Ding!/

…Who throws dice in the middle of a corridor?

But then—something strange happens.

In the span of less than a second—the Ghost Officer’s aura disappears in tandem with the sound of a slamming door.

That hasn’t happened before, not since Xie Lian’s shackle was damaged.

If that was something as simple as the officer disappearing behind a closed door, Xie Lian would still be able to see him—spiritual power has to be much further away before it disappears from his sight, so…

Where did he go?

The prince makes his way down the hall, curious.

When he reaches the point where the officer disappeared, he reaches out cautiously with his fingertips—finding what seems to be an ordinary door at first. Not even locked, because when Xie Lian pulls it open, there’s only an empty room on the other side.

What on earth…?

But when he feels around the door frame, his palm sliding against the wall—Xie Lian finds something else.

A statue of a woman, hewn from marble—finely dressed, and from the feel of it, she must have been a historical figure or a former goddess, though not one that he recognizes.

Her robes are detailed, and he can feel a headpiece that certainly seems to be that of royalty—but there are two details that catch his attention.

First—the butterflies carved into her sleeves, so similar in feel to Hua Cheng’s.

And second—there’s a sword at her waist.

Which makes it hard to discern who this statue could be depicting.

It’s rare for a monarch to be portrayed holding a sword. Figures like Xie Lian are somewhat different. He was never crowned, and his training in martial arts and cultivation was a rarity for royalty.

It seems unlikely that she would be a queen, then—and this does feel somewhat reminiscent to a divine statue. Rather similar in style to the one San Lang carved in his shrine, actually, but…

Only martial gods are depicted with weaponry or armor of any sort.

And in all of Xie Lian’s time—he’s never heard of a martial goddess.

But before he can wonder any more about that—he finds what she’s holding between her palms: a tray. Not like a serving tray, but thick and rounded steel.

That’s when he realizes—it must have been where the dice landed before. There’s nothing on the tray when the prince checks for it now—and it would seem that the dice disappeared at the same time as the Ghost Officer.

Which really only leaves one possibility:

That there’s some sort of travel array set up, and the dice are the key to using it. Which means it’s utterly useless to Xie Lian—because no matter what he rolled, it probably wouldn’t be the proper number combination to begin with.

Then, a voice rings out, making him jump.

“Gege!”

It’s a familiar name—but it’s not coming from Hua Cheng, and—

A child rushes past him now, so quickly that the breeze stirs Xie Lian’s robes.

—the call wasn’t directed at him.

“Gege, you’re too fast!”

His curiosity is only spurned further when another voice answers.

“Sorry, sorry…”

The ghost that ran past Xie Lian first was rather weak, her aura barely more than that of a ghost fire, but the slightly older child that reappears around the corner—

Xie Lian saw that aura before, in town.

Vividly green, with a burning, flickering core.

When he appeared before, he was in the form of a young teenager—but now, he seems to be barely more than nine years old, judging by the sound of his voice.

He drifts back down the hallway now, meeting the little girl halfway and taking her by the hand.

“What were you wandering off for?” The words sound slightly scolding, but he’s gentle, leading her off to a room on the other side of the corridor. “You’ll get lost that way.”

“…I got lonely,” she admits. “Is it going to be much longer?”

“No,” the older boy promises.

“Just waiting for a few others. Go ahead and sleep, okay?”

There’s the sound of a door shutting, and while the little girl may have gone—Xie Lian knows that he isn’t alone.

“…I didn’t get your name, before.” He comments quietly, folding his arms inside his sleeves.

There’s nervous silence on the other side of the hall, and the prince smiles awkwardly, trying not to be too ‘intimidating,’ though he doubts many would see him that way anymore as it is.

He tries asking another question, ever so gently, “Do you live here?”

It remains quiet.

It takes so long—Xie Lian isn’t exactly sure if he should try again, or just leave the child to his business, but—

“Shuo.”

The reply is soft, near incoherent, until he repeats himself.

“My name is Shuo, and I live here sometimes.”

He doesn’t sound so sure about the last part.

There’s a cautious hesitance to him, like a kitten that’s just a little too nervous to approach a friendly human, an air that makes Xie Lian’s heart ache in a way that he can’t initially explain.

“And the little one who was with you?”

“…She’s just passing through,” he mumbles.

When Xie Lian raises an eyebrow, he grips one wrist behind his back, shuffling his feet. “…Some ghosts can’t move on by themselves,” he mutters, “especially the little ones.”

The prince has never heard of such things before—but he supposes it makes sense.

“And they stay here?” Xie Lian questions, turning his head in the direction where Shuo led the little girl off, and the boy shakes his head.

“Not for long. Hua Chengzhu guides them along. The ghost fires that get stuck around here too.”

Ah—Xie Lian blinks slowly, understanding.

That’s what the officer meant before, referring to ‘safe passage,’ and now—

Now he remembers a story that he heard a long, long time ago. One that he had forgotten over the centuries.

About a new ghost king, one who would guide wayward children if they waited in the night, a red lantern in hand.

Now, Xie Lian realizes—that must have been Hua Cheng. It’s no wonder then, that he would have remembered the outbreak of Human Face Disease.

After all—the prince was beginning to hear stories about him less than forty years into his second banishment.

And that makes him wonder—if they had waited that night, when he was with Kuo’s little brother and his friends in the woods—would Xie Lian have met Hua Cheng back then?

How different would things have been if he had? Then again, Xie Lian was…

Back then? In perfect honesty, he was immature, spoiled, and recovering. He doubts Hua Cheng would have wanted his friendship back then, so maybe the fact that they didn’t meet was for the best.

“And you…help him?” He questions, trying to understand where the young ghost factors into the situation. After all—he seems to hold some authority in the city, and to take on some responsibility here.

Still, Shuo remains quiet—and Xie Lian tries another question.

“…You were older before,” he comments quietly. It isn’t exactly a question, but he allows it to hang in the air—and after a moment, Shuo replies—

“Adults frighten them, sometimes. It’s easier if you’re closer to their age.”

Xie Lian suspected as much.

“…Are you—?” He starts, wondering how much he could ask the young man. After all, he seems to know quite a bit more than he’s saying, but whether or not he’ll answer is a different matter all together—

“Dianxia, there you are.”

It would seem that the Ghost King has returned.

Xie Lian glances back in his direction, lips turning up nearly unconsciously at the sound of his voice. “Oh, I’m sorry—I went to look for the child while you were gone, and I’m afraid…I got a bit lost.”

He nods towards Shuo, adding—

“This young man was helping me find my way.”

Hua Cheng’s gaze flickers over to Shuo—and when he arches one eyebrow, curious, the boy simply shrugs, mumbling—

“Mr. Hua and I were just about to head back to the throne room,” he agrees—and Xie Lian finds the tips of his ears growing hot.

That name was obviously an alias.

Did he really have to mention it in front of—?

Now, Hua Cheng’s other eyebrow rises to join it’s counterpart, and his lips spread into a slow smile. “Mr. Hua?” He murmurs, sounding utterly amused.

“We—” Xie Lian starts, then bites his tongue, stopping himself.

At first, he was going to say that he hadn’t realized that Shuo was an associate of Hua Cheng’s when he introduced himself before, but then he remembers what Shuo said, standing outside the gambler’s den—

That he was ‘grounded,’ technically speaking.

So, he can’t explain that.

Not without potentially getting the boy in trouble.

Shuo, however, seems to have no such reservations. And when Hua Cheng is around, he’s suddenly far less quiet.

“…It’s Mr. Hua Lian, isn’t it?” He repeats, his eyes wide. “I apologize if I misheard.”

“…”

He definitely knows he didn’t mishear, Xie Lian can tell as much from the ever so subtle undertone to his voice—that of mischievousness.

“Did his highness tell you that when you snuck out, before?”

Ah.

Xie Lian sags, feeling like the living equivalent of a deflated balloon.

So, Hua Cheng already figured that out. Xie Lian didn’t necessarily have to fall on that sword. That’s—

That’s fine. His face feels like it’s burning up, but that’s fine.

Shuo seems properly chagrined now, suddenly focused on examining his shoes. “Who told you about that?”

“Your favorite person decided to send a few beasts to stir up trouble,” the mere mention of that makes the younger ghost hiss, lips pulling back to bare his teeth.

Xie Lian can’t help but wonder whether or not he has fangs too—and if so, whether they’re retractable.

“While I was in the city, a few people mentioned seeing you.”

Well, at least he knows Xie Lian wasn’t the one who—

Shuo crosses his arms, still staring at his shoes, “I only went because there was a commotion,” he mumbles.

Hua Cheng glances in the prince’s direction.

“…A commotion?” He repeats.

Suddenly, like he’s watching a crash in slow motion, Xie Lian realizes where the conversation is going, and his heart stutters.

“I—!”

“One of the stall owners was bothering a young woman who said she was looking for her husband.” Shuo mumbles. “Lan Chang stepped in to help her, but…”

That’s when he trails off, seeming to realize that the story doesn’t sound…particularly flattering to the god in question.

“…This altercation somehow led to you two running into one another?” The ghost king arches an eyebrow—and Xie Lian feels almost lightheaded with embarrassment, but—

“It was me,” he mumbles, wishing it was possible for him to just sink into the floor and disappear.

There’s a long beat of silence—and Xie Lian comes to the conclusion that he’s already in the metaphorical hole, if you will—so he might as well keep on digging.

“I was in disguise,” he croaks, regretting a multitude of decisions over the last twenty four hours.

“And I got caught turning back, which caused a bit of a scene…Shuo helped me, and showed me the way to the Gambler’s Den.”

“Disguise,” Hua Cheng repeats, uncharacteristically quiet—and Xie Lian can’t help but wonder if the Ghost King is offended by his sneaking around.

“…Yes,” he mumbles, nodding his head miserably. “Before Lang Qianqiu’s outburst, we were trying to keep a low profile. But I ended up attracting too much attention anyway, so…”

“Disguised as a woman,” the calamity murmurs—not upset, but Xie Lian buries his face in his hands.

“It was the Wind Master’s idea, not mine…” He mumbles, his voice rising an octave.

“A woman looking for her husband.”

Honestly, Xie Lian feels even more sorry about that. Obviously, a female cultivator could be in Ghost City for other reasons than looking for a spouse.

But he had been panicking, and it was just the first thing that came to mind—

“Going by the name Hua.”

Oh.

Finally, XIe Lian starts to understand what the Ghost King has been getting at—and so does Shuo, covering his mouth with both hands to stop himself from laughing.

Oh no.

“…I…” Xie Lian starts to lift his head, his mouth hanging open. “I didn’t mean—oh, you don’t think—?”

It may have, to some outside observers, seemed like Xie Lian was trying to pose as…

…Crimson Rain Sought Flower’s wife.

The prince doesn’t know whether to laugh, or cry.

And the worst part is—Xie Lian is slowly beginning to realize that some people are in fact going to connect that incident to his interaction with Hua Cheng in the gambler’s hall.

Meaning they’ll have seen the prince—theoretically—posing as Hua Cheng’s bride, and then…

He went on to wager a kiss with the Ghost King, whether or not it was his idea, in front of an entire crowd of ghosts.

Which might make it seem less like Xie Lian is posing as Hua Cheng’s wife, and more like he actually is his, well…

…Oh, heavens, what has he done?

“I…” He whispers between his fingers, “I didn’t mean—!”

“Of course,” Hua Cheng is quick to agree. “It’s alright.”

“…Hua Lian was the name I was using in Gusu, before we met,” Xie Lian croaks, “It was just the first thing I thought of.”

“Understandable,” he’s nodding with every word Xie Lian says, but it’s hard to tell whether or not Hua Cheng is simply trying to make him feel better.

“…I just used the surname Hua a lot because…Flower Crowned…Martial God and everything…” Xie Lian mumbles, wishing he could make himself stop talking.

“That makes perfect sense, dianxia, it’s alright.”

How could it be alright, when Xie Lian has made such a fuss?

He couldn’t have made more of a scene without setting the entire place on fire, to be honest.

Shuo glances back and forth between the two, his eyes wide—in part, trying to hold back laughter, but also…

He’s never seen Hua Cheng look quite so off kilter up until now.

Hua Cheng seems similarly aware of that fact, murmuring, “You’ve had a long day, you should rest.”

Of course—he isn’t wrong, it’s been a rather eventful twenty four hours for the younger ghost.

But he’s also asking to spare himself from the audience to this conversation.

“…” Shuo glances back and forth between the two of them once more, and he shrugs—making his way back down the hallway. “If you say so.”

Xie Lian rubs his cheeks, struggling with his embarrassment, and the best distraction seems to be changing the subject.

“…That child seems fairly familiar with you,” Xie Lian mutters, his voice slightly hoarse.

“Well,” by comparison, Hua Cheng seems relatively unaffected, and Xie Lian finds himself envying his stoicism. “We’ve known each other for quite some time.”

Yes—but there was an ease between the two that Hua Cheng didn’t seem to share with the other ghosts in the city.

Shuo seemed respectful of Hua Cheng, but not quite so reverential as everyone else.

“Is he one of your subordinates?”

Hua Cheng thinks on that, offering the prince his arm. Xie Lian reaches out and takes it without thinking, walking along side him as the ghost king makes his way back down the hall.

“He does perform tasks for me,” he murmurs, “But I wouldn’t call him an employee.”

The prince grows quiet for a moment, thinking on that, eventually asking—

“…Are you his father, San Lang?”

That actually seems to punch through the ghost king’s composure, drawing a surprised snort.

“Pardon, dianxia?”

“I just mean…well…”

Stories like that were rather common, when Xie Lian was a child.

Hua Cheng never mentioned anything about having been married at any point in time—and he certainly doesn’t act like he is now—but it’s not unheard of for illegitimate children to be raised as apprentices.

It even happens in the heavens, with some martial gods appointing their own unclaimed children as deputies.

Xie Lian wouldn’t judge Hua Cheng for that at all—it seems rather human to him.

“…You two just seemed almost like family,” he explains, “that’s why I asked.”

“…I’m not offended,” Hua Cheng clarifies, making him sigh with relief, “but I haven’t fathered any children as of yet, your highness.”

That’s a shame—from the way Xie Lian saw him handle Banyue, and later Shuo—

Hua Cheng seems like he would make a rather good father.

And now that he’s dead—or undead, as it were—Xie Lian supposes he never will.

“But I did take Shuo in when he was very young, along with his older brother,” the ghost king explains, “and he’s been somewhat like…a ward of mine ever since. So, you weren’t entirely wrong.”

The prince understands what Hua Cheng means then, when he implies that Shuo is somewhat neither here nor there. Wards are complicated in that sense, after all.

“Is his brother still here as well?”

There’s a moment’s hesitation.

“…He was dispersed a century ago, dianxia.”

Xie Lian’s eyes widen slightly with sympathy.

“…Oh, San Lang…” he murmurs, squeezing the ghost king’s arm. “I’m so sorry.”

For a moment—Hua Cheng isn’t sure of how to react. Many comforted Shuo in the time after—as they should have, the child was a shell of himself for years.

But no one ever said such a thing to Hua Cheng—and he never expected them to.

After all—he wasn’t Bao’s father, nor his brother. He was a guardian—and one who failed to protect him at that.

However, hearing it from his god now—the ghost king can’t say that he isn’t comforted.

“…It’s quite alright, your highness,” he replies quietly. “It’s been many years now.”

But that doesn’t always mean that the pain has gotten easier—Xie Lian knows that better than anyone.

They come to a halt now, in front of a different door.

“There was actually a place I had been meaning to show you,” Hua Cheng murmurs. “I thought his highness might enjoy it.”

Xie Lian’s eyebrows arch curiously, and he smiles. “Then by all means…” he murmurs.

Two steel tigers stand before the door, locked in makeshift battle.

With a flick of Hua Cheng’s wrist, however, they part in a quiet screech of metal—and when the door opens, the first thing Xie Lian recognizes is the distinctive smell of metal and leather.

He reaches out carefully—at Hua Cheng’s encouragement—and he finds rows upon rows of weaponry.

The prince’s eyes widen slightly when they find the hilt of a sword—then an axe, a pole arm, and a shield—every type of blade he can imagine, and it seems to be here.

Hua Cheng watches him closely, trying to discern whether or not the prince is pleased from the look on his face—

And after a moment, Xie Lian smiles so widely that it’s near painful.

“San Lang! Are all of these really yours?”

“They are,” the ghost king smiles in return, watching as the prince takes in the weapons one by one, “are any of them to dianxia’s liking?”

Xie Lian almost snorts, finding the idea that any of them could be considered ‘sub-par’ near laughable. “All of them! They’re amazing!”

The quality and durability of each blade alone is outstanding...and there's something else about them that catches the god's attention;

They're the same quality of what he would expect of a Heavenly weapon. Better in some cases, really.

"...Can I ask how you came to have them?"

"Of course," Hua Cheng smiles, not seeming particularly secretive about the matter. "I made them myself."

Xie Lian's eyebrows couldn't raise any higher at this point as he carefully takes a rapier into his hands, light, perfectly balanced, but incredibly strong.

"...You did?"

Hua Cheng nods, looking over Xie Lian's shoulder, examining the particular blade that he's holding. "Every single one."

The prince finds himself remembering what Hua Cheng said during their journey to the crescent moon kingdom.

"...Was your mother really a blade smith, then?"

After a moment, the ghost king replies--but his tone is somewhat distant, "...She didn't give birth to me," he admits. "She was more of a Guoshi, but I have long considered her a mother."

Even curiouser--Xie Lian has rarely heard of female Guoshis, particularly in the past.

"And your birth mother?" He questions, knowing the question might bring painful memories with it--but Hua Cheng doesn't seem particularly bothered when he answers.

"I lost her when I was very young, dianxia. I don't remember much. But she was a good woman, I know that."

Xie Lian supposes he can somewhat understand what Hua Cheng is surprising. He had a difficult relationship with his own father. Not because they didn't love one another, but because they rarely saw eye to eye on most matters.

Still--Mei Nianqing was a father to him as well.

To some extent, he could even say the same thing about Jun Wu. Both taught him so much about what it meant to become a god, and a man...

So, all three were like fathers to him--though not all for the same reasons, or to the same degree of success.

“And your mother…she taught you how to make all of this?” He murmurs, not even bothering to disguise the awe in his voice.

“I’m not quite to her skill level,” Hua Cheng admits with a shrug. “But she did.”

Xie Lian can’t imagine that.

Any one of the weapons here surpasses most of the arms in the heavens, but still—he lets the matter rest.

Instead, he inquires about each and every one of them—the method behind making them, their use. Hua Cheng is patient, answering each question in detail.

There are blades of white jade—some that turn elastic and change shapes under Xie Lian’s touch—

One object catches his eye, surprising him—because it doesn’t seem like a weapon at all, but rather a ring, sitting on a velvet cushion.

“…San Lang,” he arches an eyebrow.

“Is this a weapon as well?”

The ghost king leans over his shoulder, somewhat amused. “Why doesn’t his highness put it on and see?”

It’s a silver ring, from the feel of the metal—with a gem set into the face—and when Xie Lian slips it onto his finger, it’s the perfect size.

Xie Lian is starting to think that Hua Cheng must design objects that automatically adjust to the size person wearing them—otherwise, it wouldn’t make much sense that both the slippers—and now the ring—fit him so perfectly.

But he doesn’t have much time to focus on that question

The moment the ring has settled around his finger, it begins to change—stretching and coiling around his hand like a snake—but Xie Lian doesn’t panic, simply watching until he feels a handle form against his palm.

And when he gives his wrist a cautious flick—

/CRACK!/

A…whip?

But even the crack of it doesn’t sound like that of a normal weapon—it sparks and crackles with power, purple sparks of spiritual energy flying before his eyes.

“…I’ve never seen a weapon like this,” he murmurs, curious. “I didn’t know San Lang fought with a whip.”

“I don’t fight with one,” the ghost king disagrees, admiring the way the weapon looks in Xie Lian’s grip—then again, just about anything looks elegant under his hands.

The prince notices something odd about the phrasing, but can’t put his finger on why.

“This was actually built as part of a deal with a cultivation clan in Yunmeng fifty years ago,” he murmurs, watching the way the whip crackles in the air. “But they failed to keep their end of the bargain with me, so I took Zidian back.”

Xie Lian can’t fault him—that’s fair.

“It’s called Zidian?” Hua Cheng hums in agreement, and Xie Lian smiles.

‘Purple lightning.’

It’s fitting—and a rather lovely name.

“I’ve never seen a weapon quite like it,” he admits. “Really—it’s been ages since I saw a blade as fine as anything here, San Lang.”

The ghost king seems genuinely pleased by that, going so far as to offer—

“If you see anything you like here, it’s yours dianxia.”

“Oh…” Xie Lian laughs softly, a little awkward as he loosens his grip on the whip, causing it to retract back into a simple ring.

“I like everything here, San Lang, really…” he mumbles, slipping the ring off of his finger and settling it back onto it’s cushion. “It’s kind of you to—”

“Then it’s all yours.”

The prince pauses, his eyebrows knitting together.

He isn’t actually serious, is he?

“…I couldn’t…” He mumbles, opting to politely decline. “I haven’t used a weapon in years, and even so…I wouldn’t have anywhere to store all of this. San Lang is very kind, but—”

“That’s easy enough then,” Hua Cheng shrugs. “You can store them here—consider the armory yours.”

Xie Lian pauses, waiting for the moment the ghost king will burst out laughing and say that it’s a joke. He’s often just a little too quick to believe what people say, so he’s cautious now, but…

Hua Cheng seems completely serious.

“I…well…” he swallows hard.

“…I wouldn’t have a way of maintaining them,” he mumbles, after all—back when he had such weapons, servants handled that. And with his current condition, it would be difficult—

“Then I suppose I’ll do maintenance from time to time,” Hua Cheng shrugs. “It’s no problem.”

Xie Lian stares at him blankly, starting to realize…

…Just how many weapons must this man have, to be willing to give the prince an entire room of them on a whim? It’s generous either way, but now it seems like Hua Cheng might have enough to arm an entire military.

“…San Lang has already done so much,” Xie Lian mumbles. “I couldn’t ask him to do chores for me as well…”

“You aren’t asking,” Hua Cheng smiles softly. “I’m offering. Are your hungry, dianxia?”

Of course, he tries valiantly to deny it—but his growling stomach gives him away.

“We can discuss the details later—come.”

Ah yes, the details of Xie Lian owning his priceless armory while Hua Cheng stores and maintains it for him, it’s all rather casual—

But Xie Lian remembers something else as they make their way back, something Jun Wu said before.

“…San Lang—all of those weapons back there—were any of them E’Ming?”

The ruthless scimitar everyone described—the weapon that made Pei Xiu’s clone into a mere child’s toy—Xie Lian can’t recall having felt anything resembling that inside the armory.

“Oh, no,” Hua Cheng replies.

“E’Ming is always on my person—or somewhere nearby.”

As he says this, Xie Lian hears an odd metallic rumbling—to which the ghost king places a hand over the hilt at his hip, murmuring—

“No.”

“…I’m sorry?”

“Not you, dianxia—it wants your attention, and I’m telling it no.”

“My attention?” Xie Lian murmurs, taking a step closer. Normally he wouldn’t be so presumptuous about someone’s personal space—but Hua Cheng seems rather comfortable with being close to one another.

He reaches for the scabbard, placing his palm over it. “This is E’Ming, then?”

The sword rattles excitedly under his palm—and Xie Lian can’t see it, but a red eye spins quickly in it’s pommel, widening sharply.

“…Is it always like that?” He questions, raising an eyebrow.

“No,” Hua Cheng admits, biting back a smile. “It just likes you.”

Xie Lian tilts his head, surprised.

E’Ming, the supposedly menacing blade of a ghost king, feared by the heavens—and it shakes like an excited puppy under his touch.

“Well, I’m flattered,” he muses, stroking his thumb over the handle.

“Did you build E’Ming yourself as well, San Lang?”

“…I did,” he agrees evenly. “He was the first weapon I ever crafted, actually.”

And he was able to make something so powerful on his first try? That leaves Xie Lian curious. Not only about that—there seems to be more to it.

Just from the way Hua Cheng speaks of it, there seems to be something held back in his tone. And while Xie Lian finds himself rather curious, he can’t ask much more about it before they return to…

…What seems very much like a feast.

“…San Lang…” Xie Lian mumbles.

“Hmm?”

“You really didn’t need to go to all of this trouble on my account…” he mumbles, feeling somewhat remorseful.

After all, he doubts Hua Cheng would be so generous if he knew why Xie Lian was actually here.

To be fair...Xie Lian himself has forgotten his actual purpose for being here several times over the course of the night--but that doesn't mean that he didn't show up with an ulterior motive.

And even if his intentions are good, he's still investigating Hua Cheng's home.

"Who says I don't just throw feasts like this every night?" The Ghost King counters with a sly grin.

And while Xie Lian's own issues with self worth can make him explain quite a bit of the Ghost King's odd behavior--that one doesn't pull off quite as well.

"...How often do you have people in Paradise Manor that actually need to eat?" Xie Lian counters dryly.

After all, ghosts won't starve.

Hua Cheng actually pauses, his lips forming into a perfect 'o' of surprise. In part, because he's not often contradicted. And also...

It's not that he forgot that Xie Lian was clever--it's that he isn't used to hearing the prince speak...

The way that Hong'er used to.

The moments are rare, but every now and again, he sees the clear influence of his younger self in the god that he so admires.

It aches as much as it soothes.

"...I'm sure you must have heard from the other ghosts before you arrived," Hua Cheng murmurs, carefully holding Xie Lian's elbow as he leads him to a seat at the head of the table, "but I don't have guests very often."

That's true--it was really all that anyone could talk about, when they saw that Hua Cheng had ordered the Ghost Officer to bring someone to the manor.

"Which means I don't get the chance to show hospitality often," the ghost king shrugs. "Please, do me the honor?"

Xie Lian can’t argue with that, not when Hua Cheng says it so hopefully, practically pleading.

Somehow, he makes Xie Lian allowing him to throw the god a feast sound like he’s doing Hua Cheng a favor.

“Alright…” He murmurs, sitting in the chair the ghost king pulls out for him

The only ones seated at the table are Xie Lian, Hua Cheng, Shuo—who sits on the other end of the table, examining his food with faint, passing interest—and the young boy, sitting at Xie Lian’s side.

He’s a little too cautious to eat anything until Xie Lian pushes it his way.

But when he does begin to eat, he does so ravenously, cramming every bit of food he can get his hands on down his throat.

Hua Cheng and Shuo both watch the boy rather closely—and neither one seem particularly friendly.

And Xie Lian can’t recall the last time he had such a meal.

Every bite is divine—to the point where he struggles with forgetting his own manners, fighting back the urge to shovel down every piece of pork on his plate.

Instead, he forces himself to chew slowly, commenting—

“I suppose I assumed but…are there ghosts who need to eat?”

After all—the boy beside him is practically inhaling his meal, and Hua Cheng shrugs.

“It really depends. Weaker spirits tend to mimic human processes out of habit. More often than not, they struggle with remembering that they’re dead.”

He explains, still watching the child.

“But stronger spirits don’t necessarily need to eat. Sometimes they will in order to fortify their forms before a fight—or they’ll simply have a meal for the experience itself. But they don’t need it, no.”

Shuo listens, taking a bite of a steamed bun, chewing thoughtfully.

Clearly, he and Hua Cheng fall into the latter category, but as for the child…That doesn’t seem quite as black and white to Xie Lian, who has been bent on trying to get at least some answers out of him, however minor they might be.

He’s only given one answer so far:

That he was born in the Kingdom of Yong’an. But—in order to be suffering from the Human Face Disease, he must have been alive very early on in the country’s history.

“You don’t even remember your name?”

The child shakes his head, wide eyed.

“In that case…”

Xie Lian thinks on it. “The official surname of the Kingdom of Yong’an was Lang…” he recalls. “Can you think of anything you would prefer as a given name?”

After a pause, the child replies—

“Ying.”

Xie Lian doesn’t react—but Hua Cheng and Shuo noticeably stiffen.

Lang Ying.

Of course, that makes sense—he’s likely trying to honor Xiao Ying in some way, the girl was such an important figure in his life—

But even Xie Lian can admit, while there’s no way the child could know—it’s an unfortunate coincidence.

It's hard to hear that name without remembering...a very different time in his life.

Even harder for Hua Cheng and Shuo for that matter.

Lang Ying glances in Shuo's direction, seemingly drawn to someone else near his age.

The savage ghost bares his teeth at him in response.

Lang Ying flinches away, hiding his face against Xie Lian's arm. The prince frowns, having not seen the little exchange between the two, but he strokes the child's hair nonethless.

"It's alright, nothing will harm you while you're with me, understand?"

Shuo looks to Hua Cheng.

The Ghost King takes a long sip from his glass of whine, not looking away from the scene for a moment, clearly thinking something over rather intently. When he finally meets Shuo's gaze, the younger ghost mouths the words--

'Can I eat him, gege?'

The Ghost King actually takes a moment to think about it, leaving the boy hopeful, but--

'No.'

That answer comes through the private array, and Shuo sits back with a huff, pushing his half eaten bun around his plate sulkily.

'Why not? Something's wrong with him.'

Hua Cheng doesn't disagree with him there, watching the child with a distrustful eye.

'Maybe so. But until we know what that is, dianxia is attached to him.'

And while Shuo is still adjusting to the prince's newfound presence in their lives, he does understand one thing:

Xie Lian's word may as well be law, as far as Hua Cheng is concerned.

'I don't like it.'

'Keep an eye on him, then.'

Xie Lian might have noticed the long bout of silence from the other two--but he has his own private conversation to be distracted by.

'Your highness?'

Xie Lian jumps at the sound of Shi Qingxuan's voice--that of her female form, to boot--echoing in his mind.

'...Lady Wind Master?'

He hears a gasp of relief in response.

'Oh , thank god! We should have exchanged passwords beforehand. I had to ask Ling Wen to set up a new private array just for us so I could get in contact with you. It's not like I could visually signal...'

'Visually?' Xie Lian blinks, sitting a little straighter 'Are you here?'

'I was hoping you might see my aura--but your highness has been pretty distracted,' Xie Lian's cheeks burn at that, but she isn't wrong. 'I'm the one who poured your wine just now.'

As he's currently in the middle of a sip, Xie Lian chokes.

"Is the wine not to your liking?"

Hua Cheng's tone is that of concern, and Xie Lian is quick in his attempt to reassure him.

"Oh, no, it's wonderful..." He smiles, setting the glass down carefully. Now that he's paying attention--he can in fact see the Wind Master's aura, flickering in the corner of his eye.

"I just forgot that my cultivation method forbids heavy drinking," he mutters, setting the glass down and pushing it away. "Pure of mind and body, and all that..."

Hua Cheng frowns. "Apologies, your highness, I didn't realize."

"Don't be sorry!" Xie Lian shakes his head.

“I was the one who never mentioned it, it’s my fault, really!”

Shuo makes a face, trying not to seem to grossed out by the fact that Hua Cheng seems genuinely annoyed by the latter part of the requirements of Xie Lian’s cultivation method, but—

Neither are particularly subtle.

Still—he’s too distracted by the boy across the table to pay too close attention to the way the god and the ghost king keep glancing at one another, quietly making conversation.

And he certainly doesn’t notice that one of the waitresses is entirely unfamiliar.

He watches Lan Ying closely, listening for the tell tale signs of some sort of clone. But the food and drink doesn’t ring hollow when it lands in his stomach. There’s no flaw in his disguise, if that’s what it is.

It’s bothersome, and it sets his teeth on edge.

And when the dinner is over, and both guests in paradise manor are settled into their rooms for the evening, he raises his concerns, falling into step beside Hua Cheng, “If he’s wearing a disguise, and we can’t see through it…”

Shuo trails off, his tone wary.

“If it was a disguise, then he would be a calamity,” Hua Cheng replies calmly, “and all of those have been accounted for.”

One long dead, another chained in the dungeon, and the other is standing before him.

In which case, it can’t be a disguise, but…

Something is off.

That much they both know. Still, the child hasn’t done anything to pose himself as an immediate thread, and—

He’s under the Prince of Xianle’s protection, meaning—until there’s proof of their suspicions—their hands are tied.

Said prince, at that very moment, is laying back on the bed in the room Hua Cheng was kind enough to give him for the night, trying to decide what to do.

After all—he’s no closer to answers than he was this morning.

In part because he keeps getting distracted, but still.

It isn’t long before there’s a knock at his door—and before he can answer, Shi Qingxuan flings herself inside, shutting it behind her before dropping down onto the floor with a groan, shifting once again.

“God, I can’t breathe…” he moans, tugging at his dress. “Too tight!”

“Can’t you just change back into what you were wearing before?” Xie Lian questions, sitting up and glancing in his direction.

“I’d stick out more if I did that…” the Wind Master replies, one sleeve slipping off of his shoulder as he rolls over with a huff. “Learn anything?”

“…Nothing particularly helpful to our case,” Xie Lian admits, rubbing the side of his neck. “I’m sorry about that. Where’s Lang Qianqiu?”

“There’s no need to worry about him,” Shi Qingxuan pulls himself up to plop down on the bed beside the prince.

“I pulled rank and ordered him to stay put,” he explains, kicking off one heeled shoe and flexing his toes. “He’s somewhat of a moron, but he’s pretty respectful of the chain of authority.”

Xie Lian isn’t surprised to find that much about him hasn’t changed.

Once, when Lang Qianqiu was just a twelve year old boy, his Guoshi had ordered him to practice meditation in the courtyard until he felt his mind become clear.

Of course, Xie Lian hadn’t been expecting the child to sit outside for a full twelve hours as a result.

When he eventually came to find him, Lang Qianqiu was apologetic, admitting that he hadn’t been able to clear his mind, as Xie Lian had commanded.

At the time, Xie Lian found it vexing—but adorable. In this situation, he finds that obedience to be a relief.

“You certainly got off luckier than we did, though,” Shi Qingxuan points out. “He’s out there trying not to get hung upside down by any more ghosts, I’m serving drinks, and you—you’re wining and dining with Crimson Rain himself.”

Xie Lian winces, because, well—it’s true.

To be fair—it wasn’t like Shi Qingxuan didn’t know about his friendship with Hua Cheng beforehand, but Xie Lian is still sorry that he’s had such a difficult time of it since arriving in the city.

“So…you haven’t found anything strange? No clues?” The Wind Master grumbles.

Xie Lian gives the matter some thought—and after a moment, replies.

“There was one thing…it seemed a little odd.”

“Oh?” Shi Qingxuan sits up quickly, hair bouncing around his shoulders. “What?”

“I’m fairly sure they have something like a distance shortening array.”

“That’s not inherently strange,” he curls his legs up underneath him, rubbing his sore feet, and Xie Lian nods.

“I know, but…this one felt different.”

He explains the story about the dice, as well as the statue he came across—and the Wind Master listens carefully.

“…That sounds like it could be one of two things,” he muses, tapping his thumb against his chin. “A lock, or an interchange.”

Xie Lian casts him a surprised look, and the Wind Master holds his hands up with a snort.

“I’m no expert—but Ming-Xiong is, and I listen to him. Sometimes. Enough to put bits and pieces of it together when I need to, anyway.” He shrugs. “Either way, it sounds promising. What did the statue look like?”

Xie Lian gives the description, brow furrowing as he recalls—

“…It might sound a little odd, but it looked like…a martial goddess of some sort,” he murmurs with a frown, expecting Shi Qingxuan to have no idea what he’s talking about, but—

“Actually, I saw a statue like that on my way in—maybe there’s more than one? Let’s take a look!”

He leaps to his feet, grabbing Xie Lian’s hand, pulling the prince along with him. Of course, it’s a slightly more stealthy affair than the way they went charging out of the heavens before, walking lightly down hallways, speaking in a private array rather than out loud.

‘Where did you see the second statue, exactly?’ Xie Lian questions, nearly slipping past a corner, only to be pulled back by Shi Qingxuan’s arm around his waist, keeping silent as a pair of servants walk past.

‘Outside, in the gardens. They’re rather lovely, you know.’

Xie Lian did know that—even if he couldn’t see them, the sound and smell alone was enough to remind him of their gardens back in Xianle. And while their childhoods are separated by miles and centuries, Shi Qingxuan seems to feel the same sentiment.

‘You know, we always had a garden growing up, no matter what,’ he comments, letting Xie Lian lean against his arm as they walk down the steps leaning outside. ‘Even when it wasn’t the most practical.’

Xie Lian almost asks if that was his parents preference—but then he remembers what Shi Qingxuan said the last time the prince asked about his family, that it’s only ever been him and his brother.

‘Was that your brother’s doing?’

The younger god nods amiably.

‘When I was a kid—there was a time when I couldn’t really go outside as much as everyone else my age. Big, elaborate courtyards and gardens were a way of getting to have…a semblance of normalcy, I guess.”

Xie Lian finds himself wondering at what could have placed him in that sort of position—but before he can think of a polite way to ask, the Wind Master pulls him to a stop.

“Ah, here it is!” He exclaims, “The statue I saw earlier,” he stands before it, holding Xie Lian’s hand.

“Now, how do you think we work it…”

“Well,” Xie Lian tilts his head to the side, deep in thought. “Throwing the dice was clearly part of the process…”

“That probably means that different combinations lead to different locations,” Shi Qingxuan muses.

“Do you think it has to be a particular set of dice, or would any work?”

“There’s only one way to find out,” the Wind Master shrugs, rummaging around, looking for pockets, then realizing he doesn’t have any—

Xie Lian stands aside awkwardly as Shi Qingxuan shoves his hands into the front of his dress, feeling around, then shifts into her female form, feeling again—but this time underneath her cleavage—

“A-HA!” He beams, holding a set up in his hands.

Xie Lian scratches his head.

“…Why…keep dice stored there?”

“I swiped them from the gambler’s hall—and these dresses don’t have any pockets, you know,” he shrugs, as though that explains everything. “Do you think you still have enough luck from earlier, or should I give it a shot?”

“…Luck?”

Xie Lian frowns. “I already explained, I don’t have any—”

“Oh, I know,” Shi Qingxuan leans over the statue, examining the tray. “But that’s what Hua Cheng was doing earlier—lending you luck.”

Xie Lian’s eyes widen slightly.

“Did you really think it was a secret technique?”

The god falls silent, his ears warming up.

He figured that San Lang was probably teasing him, but that doesn’t make Shi Qingxuan referencing the fact openly any easier to deal with.

He had no idea that luck was something that could be shared like currency—but that’s helpful.

“…There’s a decent chance that whatever luck he gave me has already run out then,” Xie Lian mutters, clearing his throat—opting not to address the elephant in the room. “Better to use yours.”

Shi Qingxuan nods, rattling the dice in his hands.

“There’s a symbol on the ground under our feet—that must be the activator for the array…” he mutters, throwing the dice down on the tray. “Here goes nothing.”

/Clack! Clack!/

Xie Lian waits, listening. “…Is something happening?”

“Well…” The Wind Master glances at their feet

“Oh! The symbol changed!” He exclaims, resting one hand on his hip. “Before, it’s as just something like a lantern, and now…”

Xie Lian raises an eyebrow. “Now…what?”

“Well,” Shi Qingxuan bends over slightly to get a better look. “It’s some sort of bug, I think…”

Xie Lian goes from being flushed by the earlier comment about Hua Cheng’s ‘secret dice rolling techniques,’ to suddenly going a little pale. “How many legs?”

“What?” Shi Qingxuan glances up. “Oh—eight, I suppose. Think it’s a spider?”

“I…Is it an actual…or—?”

“Just the symbol,” Shi Qingxuan explains, noticing the way the prince visibly shrinks with relief. “Is your highness scared of—?”

Before he can finish asking his question, the square of glass underneath them begins to glow brightly—then drops out, making them plummet.

“AHHHH!”

Xie Lian doesn’t know how far they fall—but it’s a full three seconds before they hit the ground again, Xie Lian face down, with Shi Qingxuan landing on top of his back.

/THUD!/

“Ow…” The Wind Master groans, clutching his ribs as he rolls off. “What kind of array…?!”

“I don’t know…” Xie Lian mumbles, brushing the dust off of his robes as he sits up. “What can you see?”

“It’s some sort of tunnel…” Shi Qingxuan stands, reaching over to help the prince to his feet. “Think we should follow it?”

“I suppose it couldn’t hurt…”

They start making their way down the path—and here, the only light Xie Lian has is Shi Qingxuan’s spiritual aura, so he sticks close to it, blinking and squinting awkwardly against the darkness.

“Still think it could be a lock?”

“No…” the Wind Master shakes his head.

“If it was, I don’t think regular dice would have worked.”

That makes sense—after all, a lock is no good if everyone has the key.

“Which means it’s probably an interchange. And with two dice that have six possible outcomes…that’s 36 available combinations, or destinations.”

And with Xie Lian’s luck, even if Shi Qingxuan is the one rolling—those aren’t fantastic odds.

“And with 1 in 36…The probability of getting the right roll…” The Wind Master scrunches his nose up thoughtfully. “…Is around 2.75 percent…still, even with average luck…”

He stops when he notices the way Xie Lian is staring at him, quietly surprised—and for once, Shi Qingxuan rubs the side of his neck, seeming rather sheepish.

“I’m not really much of a books person, but I’m good at math,” the Wind Master explains. “Always have been.”

Xie Lian offers a small, encouraging smile, “I can’t say the same for myself. That’s rather impressive.”

The younger god smiles back, but before either can say more, they both hear something.

Rustling, like something is moving in the far end of the tunnel, or—no.

It would be better described as…

Scuttling.

All of the blood begins to drain from the martial god’s face.

“…Lord Wind Master?”

Shi Qingxuan is slowly backing up, and Xie Lian is beginning to learn that he’s prone to laughing when nervous.

“Haha…hahahaha…y-yes?”

“I…” Xie Lian swallows hard, fighting the urge to begin hyperventilating. “Is that…?”

“A-A giant spider?” Shi Qingxuan swallows hard, still stumbling backwards. “I…it would seem so, hahaha…w-wh…haha…what an adventure! R…hahahaha..right?!”

As a fairly eccentric person himself, it takes a lot to catch the Wind Master by surprised.

But…nothing could have prepared him for the prince’s reaction.

He’s always so calm, even toned. Never shaken.

The rustling gets just a little bit closer, and—

“…eeeAAAAAAAAAK!”

The blood curdling shriek that breaks through the air is so sharp, so startling, he almost thinks it’s the monster, but—

Then the crown prince throws his hands over his head, turns around, and goes charging back down the tunnel at top speeds, leaving Shi Qingxuan frozen in shock

“D…DON’T LEAVE ME?!” He cries, turning on heel and chasing after him, but when he reaches the dead end of the tunnel where they started, that just ends with Xie Lian leaping into his arms, wrapping his limbs around Shi Qingxuan’s torso, using one trembling finger to point—

“KILL IT!”

“I…” Shi Qingxuan doesn’t struggle under Xie Lian’s weight—he’s a god, after all—but he’s not exactly used to carrying a grown man like a toddler either, so he staggers. “I’M NOT EXACTLY A WARRIOR, YOUR HIGHNESS! YOU KILL IT!”

Xie Lian, normally polite to a fault, screams, “DOES IT LOOK LIKE I’M ARMED TO YOU?!”

“I—!” The spider rounds the curve, screeching towards them, pinchers gleaming in the dim light. “JUST PUNCH IT OR SOMETHING! YOU’RE A MARTIAL GOD!”

“ABSOLUTELY NOT!”

Shi Qingxuan reaches into the collar of his dress, pulling out a fan, then—

“But—haha, your highness, if I use my powers, I could end up bringing the whole tunnel down, hahaha!”

“…” Xie Lian is clinging to his back now, legs hitched around Shi Qingxuan’s ribs.

“…I can live with that.”

The Wind Master’s smile is frozen in place as the clicking grows closer.

“H-HAH?!”

“I’VE BEEN THROUGH IT BEFORE!” Xie Lian trembles as it closes in “I CAN DO IT AGAIN!”

“BEEN THROUGH WHAT?! YOUR HIGHNESS…HAHA! STOP—COVERING MY FACE, HAHAHAHA!”

In his desperation, Xie Lian’s hands have taken to gripping the Wind Master’s head, leaving Shi Qingxuan fumbling blindly.

“WE DON’T HAVE ANY MORE TIME, JUST DO IT!”

“IN WHAT UNIVERSE IS BEING BURIED ALIVE WORSE THAN PUNCHING A SPIDER?!” The younger god wails.

“I DON’T SEE YOU PUNCHING IT!”

Shi Qingxuan stumbles back another step with Xie Lian in his grip, and this time, his back against an earthen wall—he feels a stone tile under his feet, his eyes widening.

“…OH!”

“I SWEAR IF THAT THING GETS ME BEFORE YOU KILL IT, I’LL—!”

/Clack, clack!/

The tile underneath them glows again—and then, they go tumbling.

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

/CRASH!/

/THUD!/

Xie Lian pokes his head up, hair flipping around him as he spits some of it out of his mouth.

“Lord Wind Master?” He questions, looking for his aura.

He doesn’t see anything around him, just hears the rustling of wind through leaves, and birds cawing in what sounds like…

A jungle?

“I’m not sure, your highness…” The Wind Master replies, his voice slightly muffled—coming from underneath him.

That’s when Xie Lian realizes…

they seem to have fallen into a hollow tree, with Xie Lian’s arms and head sticking out of the top, and Shi Qingxuan beneath him, having fallen head first, his feet poking precariously against the prince’s backside.

“Working with you is…a little too exciting, sometimes…”

“…” Xie Lian can’t help but let out a small snort, pulling himself up and out of the trunk, landing on the ground a little hard before turning around and punching a hole in the side, using that to pull the Wind Master out.

“Better?”

The Wind Master nods, coughing up a mouthful of dirty and dust, looking somewhat disgusted. “Somehow, yes…”

Xie Lian clears his throat, feeling more than a little awkward—and certainly very apologetic. “I’m…sorry for how I handled that…” he mutters.

“I…It’s…fine…hahaha…”

Shi Qingxuan coughs again, this time seeming to expel the rest of it. He reaches for a flask in his pocket, using it to wet his throat before offering it to the prince.

He takes it gratefully, wincing a little at the burn of the wine, but grateful for something to drink.

He hands it back over, mumbling, “I haven’t really talked to anyone about it…”

(Not since Xianle, anyway.)

“But I…have a bit of a phobia, when it comes to spiders.”

Shi Qingxuan takes another sip from his flask.

“…Oh, don’t worry your highness—I’m sure no one’s noticed.”

It takes Xie Lian a moment to recognize the sarcasm in his tone, and for a moment, the two simply stare at one another, expressions frozen, each of them rumpled, covered in dust—

And then Shi Qingxuan explodes into roaring laughter, doubling over, and Xie Lian…

…He can’t help but join in, because—

It’s ridiculous. It really, really is ridiculous.

To the point where both gods are cackling, tears running down the Wind Master’s face, Xie Lian clutching his ribs as they roll on the ground.

“I-I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU T-TOLD ME TO—AHAHAHA!”

“I-I just…” Xie Lian snorts, shoulders shaking, “I panicked!”

“You…TOLD ME TO BURY US ALIVE!” Shi Qingxuan rolls backwards, kicking his feet.

“I’m—I’m sorry about that!”

“D-Don’t be! Hahaha…it was so…SO FUCKING…F…FUNNY!”

He wheezes, wiping at his cheeks. “Ah, well…as l-long as we don’t get trapped in any more spider infested tunnels…we—we should be fine! After all—that was just an impractical space for my magic.”

Xie Lian’s chuckles start to ease as he nods in agreement, rubbing his side.

“We would have been better off with the earth or fire masters, in that situation…”

“Hmmm, Ming-Xiong would have come in handy,” Shi Qingxuan agrees. “But the Heavens doesn’t have a fire master. Hasn’t for as long as anyone can remember.”

“…Really?” Xie Lian frowns.

He can remember that there was a fire master before his own first ascension—but that the official was rather old, and chose to retire…

But it’s been nearly a thousand years since then. Have they really not replaced him yet?

Before Xie Lian can question more, There’s noise.

Rustling in the bushes and the trees nearby, and then…

His expression falls, leaving Shi Qingxuan to look around in a mild panic. “Don’t worry, your highness—I don’t see any more spiders around!”

“No, no…” Xie Lian frowns. “It’s not that…”

“Then what?!”

Now, when he quiets down—he can hear it.

Speaking in the trees—in a language he himself doesn’t understand.

“…It would seem that this is an extremely isolated area,” Xie Lian mutters, rising to his feet. “The clans here…”

The cries grow louder.

“…Aren’t in contact with the rest of the continent, meaning they aren’t used to travelers or strangers…”

And they just saw two strange men—one blind, the other scantily dressed in women’s clothes—fall from the sky and start speaking in a strange language.

“…So?”

A rock hits the side of Xie Lian’s head—sharp enough to draw blood—before thunking off and landing on the ground. He doesn’t wince, doesn’t even flinch, actually—but his expression turns rather grim.

“They’ll throw rocks first, ask questions later.”

“Oh,” Shi Qingxuan frowns.

“That’s—”

Then, it’s showering down rocks, and it’s all either one of them can do to manage not to get hit, scrambling back.

“Should we try to go—? Ah!” The Wind Master stops in mid sentence, reaching up to touch his cheek.

There’s a small cut there, blood running down his chin.

Xie Lian stops, clutching his hands to his chest, eyes widening as he listens to the Wind Master’s voice drop three octaves, his eyes glowing green, all the way from iris to the edge of his cornea.

“Who got my face?”

See, that’s his ‘god voice,’ and Xie Lian is all too familiar with that—when a Heavenly Official becomes so irritated, their power starts to poke through their human form.

For obvious reasons, Xie Lian hasn’t had a ‘god voice’ to use in about…eight centuries.

“L-Lord Wind Master—”

“THAT’S RIGHT!” He stands up, hands balled into fists, “I AM THE LORD SHI QINGXUAN, GOD OF THE THREE REALMS, MASTER OF THE WIND!”

It all sounds rather impressive, coming from a man wearing a dress that hugs his hips somewhat salaciously.

“Hold on—!”

“WHICH ONE OF YOU /DARED/ TO CUT MY BEAUTIFUL, PERFECT FACE?!”

“They’re still mortals—!”

And they also aren’t underground anymore, so Shi Qingxuan has no qualms about taking his fan out, sweeping it around to form powerful gusts of wind, flinging the humans up into the trees.

“…They’ll be fine,” he mutters, turning around and smoothing his hair. “No one could blame me for that anyway—it was completely provoked.”

Xie Lian isn’t sure that the response was proportional, but…

“…Right, sure…”

“Either way, you’re doing the next dice roll.”

“…Me?”

Xie Lian shakes his head quickly, “No, no, I don’t think that’s a good idea…my luck is terrible—”

“And my luck got us thrown in a spider cave, and then we were nearly stoned to death,” Shi Qingxuan replies dryly.

Xie Lian thinks ‘stoned to death’ is a dramatic description…

“You might have some left over luck from the Gambler’s Den—and even if you don’t, something tells me that your lo—your friend’s demented traveling array is going to be friendlier to you than it is to me.”

“…” Xie Lian rubs his chin. “…I suppose that makes sense,” he mutters.

The prince takes the dice when Shi Qingxuan hands them over, moving—with the Wind Master’s guidance—to stand on another stone tile. “But remember—considering my luck, it might be something worse.”

“Worse than a giant spider?” The younger man questions wryly.

Well. Xie Lian supposes it really can’t get worse than that, so he has a point.

“Here goes nothing…” He mutters, rolling the dice in his palm—and trying to mimic Hua Cheng’s posture from before, just in case—

/Clack, clack!/

There’s a beat of nervous silence afterwards.

“…What’d I get?” Xie Lian mumbles, resting the urge to bite his nails.

“Two Sixes,” the Wind Master mutters, watching the tile beneath them. “It doesn’t seem to be anything that bad this time.”

“Does iIIIIIIIIIT—!”

And, of course, they’re falling again.

/CRASH!/

This time, Xie Lian gets somewhat of a cushy landing, coming down on top of a couch set just beside the exit, a little wind swept, but otherwise fine.

Shi Qingxuan, however, ends up landing face down against the flagstones once again with a groan.

“I HATE this thing!”

“Are you alright?” Xie Lian frowns, concerned as he brushes off his robes. “Nothing’s broken?”

There’s a little more blood on his chin now when he sits up—but for the most part, he’s only battered and bruised.

“Right…well,” he looks around. “This seems promising.”

After all—there’s no sound of menacing approaching arachnids. No terrified locals throwing rocks at them, but…

When Xie Lian breathes in, he smells something that makes him go still.

“…What is it now?!” Shi Qingxuan groans, seeing the look on his face.

“…Blood.”

Xie Lian mutters, leaping from the couch, peering down the hall, shackle glowing in the dark. “Someone’s hurt.”

And while ghosts are capable of bleeding—it doesn’t smell like that.

Shi Qingxuan pales, turning and heading in that direction. “Then we should hurry!”

Xie Lian doesn’t disagree—the possibility of someone being injured is a time crunch in itself—

And there are others who can access this place: with far more accuracy than them.

He follows the wind master down the passageway, leading to an open, stone chamber.

Shi Qingxuan goes still for a moment, eyeing the room. “…What is this place?” He whispers, shivering, rubbing bare his arms to soothe them from the cold.

Xie Lian’s expression turns grim.

“It’s a cell,” he mutters, taking in the cursed energy around them.

There’s a soft clink in the corner—but not that of wraith butterflies or silver bells.

No, Xie Lian is familiar with the sound of chains by now.

Shi Qingxuan’s eyes follow the sound, finding a figure chained to the wall, hands shackled over his head.

Dark hair hides his face, but when he tilts his chin, some of it falls aside, revealing one eye, burning like dark sea ice under the dim lighting of the torches.

Xie Lian isn’t expecting the sound that rips from Shi Qingxuan’s throat.

A worried, frightened cry.

“…Ming-Xiong!”

He rushes over, pushing the man’s hair from his face, carefully tucking it behind his ears.

He’s got blood on his face, bruises—and clear signs of injuries to his abdomen, but nothing that seems to be fatal.

“I had no idea you had been captured!”

The wind master cries, pressing his hands against the prisoner’s cheeks, looking him in the eye, “Why didn’t you call for help?!”

The god doesn’t answer, looking him over with a tired, confused expression.

“…What the fuck are you wearing?” He rasps, blood staining his teeth.

“Well—”

“Lord Wind Master?” Xie Lian questions, glancing between them. “You two know each other?”

“We sure do!”

“Never seen him before in my life.”

They both answer at the tame time, and Shi Qingxuan gasps, offended.

“Ming-Xiong! I’m your best friend!”

“I wouldn’t be best friends with someone who dresses like that…” he mutters, and when Xie Lian squints at that aura—

There’s something familiar about it.

“…Have we met before?”

“Yes!”

“No.”

Shi Qingxuan gives him an annoyed look, even as he’s hugging him fiercely.

“This is Earth Master Ming Yi, I’ve already told you about him.”

Xie Lian’s lips form into a perfect ‘O,’ eyes widening. “…Ah.”

The woman who beat Feng Xin senseless, then.

Well, not a woman at the moment, but—

While he’s lost in thought, Ming Yi’s nose bumps again’s Shi Qingxuan’s cheek. “What happened here?”

The annoyed expression in the Wind Master’s eyes quickly fades.

“You never let anything cut your face.”

“…I went through a lot, trying to rescue you,” he pouts.

“I was chased by a giant spider—”

“That part was awful,” Xie Lian agrees morosely, and Shi Qingxuan nods vehemently, happy to be vindicated.

“And then we ended up in some jungle, and the locals threw rocks at us, and they cut my face! Plus I fell at least a dozen times—!”

More like three times, but Xie Lian doesn’t correct him.

Ming Yi, however, snorts, bumping his nose against the Wind Master’s cheek once more. “You didn’t even know I was the one you were rescuing, crybaby.”

Xie Lian can’t see the way that name, which should be an insult, makes Shi Qingxuan smile widely, leaning his cheek into Ming Yi’s touch until he’s practically nuzzling him.

“Ungrateful…” He huffs, sneaking a chaste, quiet kiss, taking advantage of the fact that no one can see.

When he pulls back, Ming Yi’s eyes are somewhat annoyed—but he smiles, sharpened canines flashing in the dark.

“…Are you badly hurt?” Xie Lian questions from behind them, stepping closer.

“I’ll recover,” the earth master replies calmly.

“Was it you who used the dragon spell?”

There’s a brief pause, but when he agrees, he sounds emphatic.

“Yes, it was me.”

That explains the seriousness of his injuries, at least.

Xie Lian draws close to his side, reaching up to examine the chains locking him in place. “Lord Wind Master, could you lend me some power?”

The elemental god nods, leaning over to take Xie Lian’s hand. Once he feels the power flowing through him, he grasps the chains over Ming Yi’s head, squeezing until they fracture into rubble under his touch.

“There,” he mutters. “Can you stand?”

“I can manage, your highness.”

Shi Qingxuan is quick to help, pulling the earth master’s arm around his shoulders—that way Ming Yi can lean against him as they make their way back down the hall.

Xie Lian walks ahead, thinking.

“…Lord Earth Master,” he mumbles, “what quarrel do you have with Hua Cheng?”

Ming Yi doesn’t respond, which doesn’t seem to be an odd move for him, considering Shi Qingxuan’s constant complaints about the god’s antisocial tendencies.

Either way, Xie Lian supposes it’s a matter he can discuss with the emperor once they get back.

“Should I roll again?”

“Obviously!” Shi Qingxuan grumbles, hugging one arm around Ming Yi’s waist. “I’m not touching those things again until we’re back where we’re supposed to be!”

Xie Lian supposes that’s fair, he just hopes he has enough luck left.

He gives his hands a shake—

/Clack, clack!/

The prince has no way of knowing what he rolled this time—but instead of a trap door opening under him, he hears a passage creaking open ahead.

Ah, much better.

He takes a step forward, turning his head to tell the other two to hang on a moment while he gets his bearings—

But his foot goes straight into a void, and Xie Lian’s expression cracks for a moment, becoming a look of pure, resigned annoyance.

Ah, so it was another trap door after all. It was just slightly to the left, instead.

And this time, all the more tragically—

It opens directly over the armory.

Where Hua Cheng happens to be sitting—on a throne of sorts, thoughtfully polishing E’Ming.

Well, until he hears someone plummeting towards him with a surprised yelp.

Xie Lian is familiar enough with these arms by now, when he lands—he knows exactly where he is. Though it is a little more embarrassing, given that this time—

He’s being cradled in the Ghost King’s lap, E’Ming quickly set aside.

“My,” his voice rumbles in his chest, against Xie Lian’s cheek—one palm resting against his back, the other curled around the dip of the prince’s knee. Xie Lian would have expected him to be irritated, having someone drop out of the sky like that, but—

To the contrary.

He sounds absolutely delighted.

His hands tighten ever so slightly where they rest on his body, gripping the prince more firmly, and it’s almost like Xie Lian can’t breathe.

“Hello, your highness,” he muses, surveying that mortified, delicately flushed face. “Dropping in?”

And Xie Lian, he—

The prince can only manage a wooden nod, both hands flying up to cover his mouth, struggling to reply.

“…Hello, San Lang…” He croaks.

Part of him desperately hopes that the situation won’t get even more difficult to explain, but…

/CRASH!/

Clearly, the other two didn’t see where the trap door was either—but they don’t land in such a pleasant place as Xie Lian did.

No, instead—they wind up on the floor in a heap.

Xie Lian can’t help but wince in sympathy for both of them.

One has already fallen several times in the last hour, the other gravely injured.

Hua Cheng tilts his head, his thumb stroking the side of his knee with his thumb—a casual touch that leaves the prince feeling like he could crawl out of his own skin to escape the heat it brings.

“…Dianxia,” he murmurs, turning to look Xie Lian in the face once more. “Would you mind explaining the situation?”

Xie Lian stares up at him blindly, his face becoming more and more flushed with blood by the second, one hand clutched over his mouth, the other over his chest.

And at first, his mind is running through a dozen different lies—but the prince already knows they’re no good.

Xie Lian isn’t much of a liar, and it’s even worse when it’s someone he respects.

“…I’m sorry!”

Hua Cheng raises an eyebrow as the prince leaps from his lap.

“Your highness?”

“I’m sorry! I’m so, so sorry, San Lang,” he rambles, stumbling back towards his fellow gods. “I should have explained sooner, I—I really didn’t mean to cause you any trouble!”

Shi Qingxuan sits up, blowing his hair out of his face irritably.

“Why are you apologizing to him?!” He cries, holding Ming Yi against his side, glaring in Hua Cheng’s direction. “Look what he did to Ming-Xiong! he should be the one apologizing, whining and dining you, all while he had your fellow official locked in his DEMENTED MAGICAL ATTIC!”

“Actually,” Hua Cheng speaks up, holding up a single finger. “The word you are looking for would be dungeon.”

Shi Qingxuan stops, his eyebrows knitting together as Ming Yi sends the calamity a glare. “…Oh…” He mumbles. “Sorry, your—WHY WAS MING-XIONG IN YOUR DUNGEON?!”

Hua Cheng’s eyes slowly rake over the Wind Master before he answers, taking in his form—which was scantily clad to begin with, but now, in his male body, it’s even tighter—and ripped in many places. “Do you work for me? That uniform is familiar.”

“I—not exactly…”

“Were you at dinner before?” Hua Cheng muses, tapping his chin. “I almost recognize you…”

Xie Lian opens his mouth to tell Shi Qingxuan to, for once, stay still—but the god needs little provocation to shift at any point in time.

“Oh, that’s because I looked like this!”

She shifts quite easily, which leads to problems of it’s own.

The dress is less suffocating than it was before, but…due to the newfound rips, it…

Leaves the chest heavily exposed. Not something Shi Qingxuan minds, after all, she goes shirtless in her male form, but—

Hua Cheng, who has never been one to look at any woman, stares at her breasts rather pointedly now, a slow smirk spreading across his face as Ming Yi’s eyes narrow sharply.

“Ah, Lady Wind Master,” his eyes slowly rise to her face, “it’s good to see you again—and a surprise.”

Shi Qingxuan flushes. Not because of her indecent exposure, she hasn’t noticed or cared about that fact at all—but more so because now, Crimson Rain Sought Flower is familiar with both of her forms.

Ming Yi, however, seems highly irritated for a rather obvious reason.

“You idiot,” he snarls, ripping at his outer robes before throwing the garment around her shoulders, effectively covering her up, “if you’re going to stay in that form, shift into your actual robes!”

“What?!”

“What kind of lady leaves everything hanging out like that?!”

“Wha—? Oh…” Shi Qingxuan’s eyes widen as she pulls the outer robe a little closer around her shoulders, glancing over to Hua Cheng, realizing what he was doing.

The reasoning seems rather baffling, as he obviously isn’t attracted to her, but—

(Ming Yi knows exactly why.)

“Wait,” Xie Lian speaks up, sounding even more mortified, “Lady Wind Master, were you exposed just now…?”

“Well,” Shi Qingxuan scratches the side of her head. “Kinda…not…entirely…”

“Don’t worry, gege,” Hua Cheng assures him, “The Earth Master is a gentleman. He helped.”

Ming Yi is so infuriated, he opens his mouth, pulling his lips back over his teeth—

And then he stops, glaring at Hua Cheng wrathfully.

“Would you SHUT UP?”

Xie Lian glances around, overwhelmed—but that certainly doesn’t sound like a wounded prisoner speaking to their captor.

Hua Cheng’s eye flashes slightly in warning.

“Careful, earth master,” he murmurs—and he says that title with a sneer. “You forget where you’re standing.”

Right.

In Hua Cheng’s territory.

Shi Qingxuan’s eyes flash as she pulls Ming Yi behind her.

“Crimson Rain,” she glares—and Hua Cheng will give the Wind Master one thing—

“You might be the friend of a friend, but If you want to hurt Earth Master Ming Yi, you’ll go through me first!”

She looks fearless, protecting a loved one.

Hua Cheng stares back at her coldly.

Finally, his gaze drifts to He Xuan, who refuses to look him in the eye.

So—he is capable of feeling some amount of shame, then.

Good.

“Ming Yi?” Hua Cheng muses, watching the creature tense in Shi Qingxuan’s hold. “Is that what you call the traitor?”

…Traitor?

The earth master tenses, remaining quiet as Xie Lian looks to Hua Cheng, curious.

“I know this creature as a subordinate of mine, he’s served me for the last ten years.” The ghost king explains flatly. “I realized the truth when I saw him in the Crescent Moon Kingdom.”

Which would make Ming Yi…

A spy from the Heavens, sent to watch Hua Cheng.

Which also means that Jun Wu likely knew exactly which official was missing, and why—and he sent Xie Lian, a known friend of Hua Cheng’s, under the assumption he could get close safely.

It makes sense, and Xie Lian doesn’t blame Jun Wu for using him in such a way, particularly when it was to save another god’s life—

He just wishes that Jun Wu would have told him first, before the prince ended up in an awkward situation like this.

“San Lang…”

Xie Lian starts, slowly shifting himself between the ghost king and his fellow Heavenly Officials—it isn’t until he notices a quiet, frightened cry that he realizes that Lang Ying is in the room as well, hiding behind him with the others.

“I…can explain all of this…”

Hua Cheng crosses his arms, raising both eyebrows. “Alright, I’m waiting.”

Xie Lian opens his mouth to continue, but, well—

There’s really no good explanation. Not one that doesn’t make him look like a terrible, ungrateful friend.

“…The emperor assigned us to find an official he thought might be injured in the area,” Xie Lian explains, biting his lip. “So, I’ll be expected to return him to the heavens. I hope…you can let us go?”

The Ghost King is quiet, looking from Xie Lian to the Earth Master.

“…Your highness, you must know I have no ill intentions towards you,” he murmurs, and Xie Lian’s chest warms, swelling with hope.

“Of course I do, San Lang.”

“…But I must warn you, it’s better not to over-involve yourself in matters like this,” the calamity sighs.

“There’s no good end to them.”

Xie Lian doesn’t understand what he means—nor could he.

The show—one that Hua Cheng would very much like to keep him away from—hasn’t begun. Not yet.

“San Lang—”

Before he can finish, Shi Qingxuan interrupts them both.

“WIIIIINNND! COME TO ME!”

The moment he says it, strong gales begin whipping throughout the room, stirring the air around them.

“Lord Wind Master!” Xie Lian cries, reaching back to steady Lang Ying, his other hand clutching at the chain around his neck, “We were still talking it out!”

“Neither of you were going to make a move against one another, so it was just going to go on forever!” Shi Qingxuan cries, pulling her fan out of her dress, sweeping it around her until the winds reach a brutal force.

Ming Yi holds on, by wrapping his arms around her from behind—and in doing so, keeps her shredded dress and haphazardly tied outer robe from flying away.

And his eyes remain on Hua Cheng, watching long, raven tresses and blood red robes whip around in the hurricane force gales.

At first, Xie Lian can’t understand what the Wind Master is trying to do, until he realizes—there’s no exit that Hua Cheng couldn’t block them from, so, she’s simply decided on the simplest route:

Creating a new exit through the roof.

Hua Cheng seems to have deduced the plan as well, but he isn’t particularly bothered.

“Ah, that’s an interesting little fan you have,” he raises the volume of his voice to be heard over the howling of the wind. “Coincidentally, so do I.”

Saying this, he lifts a fan from the shelf beside him. This one made from what looks like solid gold in the spine and webbing, bound by red and black silk.

And while the gusts of wind from Shi Qingxuan are strong, when Hua Cheng waves his fan—

There’s no comparison.

The blast nearly knocks Shi Qingxuan off her feet—actually, it would have, if not for Ming Yi’s broad frame brazing her from behind.

She grits her teeth, hooking one ankle around his leg to brace herself as she sweeps her fan again—

But it doesn’t stop with the wind.

With each sweep of Hua Cheng’s fan—which he moves easily, like an extension of his arm—several gold foils rip forth, like the kind that Xie Lian used to play with as a boy, building golden palaces, but…

These cut flesh, and leave cracks in the walls when they land.

Of course, absolutely none of them get even close to Xie Lian—and in turn, none of them threaten Lang Ying, who is still cowering behind him.

The brunt of it, at the moment, is aimed at the Earth and Wind Masters. The latter of whom is dealing with it as best as can be expected.

Still—forget defeating Hua Cheng or escaping, right now, it’s all she can to to make sure they don’t get blown away or sliced to bits.

‘You’ve done well,’ Ming Yi speaks into their private array, ‘but you can’t over power him. Not here.’

Not anywhere, really.

But especially not in Hua Cheng’s territory.

Shi Qingxuan grits her teeth, lobbing another barrage of wind gusts his way.

‘I know that!’ She replies sharply. ‘I’m not trying to beat him!’

That draws the Earth Master’s curiosity.

‘…Then what are you doing?’

While they’re having this conversation, Xie Lian finds himself in a small pocket of the room that isn’t disturbed by the wind, somehow—like he’s caught in the eye of the storm—

And he feels Hua Cheng’s fingers brush against the side of his head, probing.

“Who did this?”

Xie Lian is startled and confused for a moment, not knowing what he means—then—

Then he realizes that, in the middle of all of this chaos, the Ghost King is worried about a small cut on the side of Xie Lian’s head.

“…I’m not sure,” he replies honestly, “I don’t remember.”

Just as he says this, in their private array, Shi Qingxuan explains—

‘I’m stalling.’

Stalling.

Ming Yi raises an eyebrow, glancing over at the other two, who seem completely lost in their own world, Hua Cheng pushing a lock of hair behind the prince’s ear with a frown.

“You should be more careful with yourself, dianxia.”

A rare admonition, coming from him—and while he might seem distracted, he’s still controlling a wild force of wind within the room, sending countless projectiles flying.

‘Stalling for…?’

/THUD!/

Hua Cheng looks up.

/THUD!/

The floor rumbles under their feet, and in spite of the raging wind storm, even more dust is somehow loosened from the ceiling, falling down around them.

/THUD!/

/THUD!/

/THUD! THUD! THUD! THUDTHUDTHUD—!/

“What on EARTH is THAT—?!”

“LORD WIND MASTER!”

The door to the armory bursts open—no, actually—it shatters, the wood splintering into pieces as a figure comes tumbling through it, rolling head over heels until it comes to a halt at Shi Qingxuan’s feet.

Lang Qianqiu sits up, hair sticking up in every direction.

Honestly—he looks like he’s already been through quite a trial. Covered in dust, scratches on his face, clothes ripped—and once he takes in Shi Qingxuan’s appearance, he adjusts his language.

“I mean—LADY WIND MASTER—!”

“Oh, Lang Qianqiu—for once, you have great timing—!”

However, before she can explain the plan fully, Lang Qianqiu interrupts her.

“I’M SORRY, I SAW THE COMMOTION AND THOUGHT YOU NEEDED A HAND—!”

“No, you were right about that part—!”

The next sentence out of his mouth makes her gawk.

“DID YOU KNOW THEY HAVE A BEAR?!”

Even Xie Lian starts with surprise, and Shi Qingxuan frowns.

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN?!”

“IT…”

(There’s distant roaring, somewhere down the hallway—likely from said animal.)

“IT LOOKS LIKE IT WOULD BE FRIENDLY…” The Prince screams over the wind, “BUT…IT IS NOT!”

“Oh,” Hua Cheng muses, that golden death trap of a fan still dangling between his fingers, “he must be speaking about Dian Dian.”

Xie Lian sends him a curious look, because that’s a surprisingly adorable name for a supposedly menacing beast, and the ghost king shrugs.

“It’s not my bear.”

The way he says it implies that it certainly does belong to someone—and is that something ghosts do? Keep dangerous beasts as pets?

Is it a live bear? Or is it a ghost bear?

Are there ghost bears—?

“WHY WERE YOU PLAYING WITH THE BEAR?!” Shi Qingxuan cries.

“I WASN’T PLAYING WITH IT!” Lang Qianqiu shakes his head vehemently, lifting one leg to show that his pants have been halfway shredded. “IT NEARLY TOOK MY LEG OFF!”

Hua Cheng smiles, muttering under his breath,

“Good bear.”

Xie Lian’s tone is somewhat scolding, “San Lang…”

The roaring and the rumbling gets closer, and The Ghost King reaches up to rub his temples—and even he’s irritated by all of the noise.

Poor Xie Lian feels the beginnings of a migraine.

“WHO HAS A BEAR IN A PALACE ANYWAY?!”

“Manor, not a palace,” Hua Cheng mutters.

“And technically speaking, Dian Dian is a Panda.”

Lang Qianqiu stops, the naturally severe shape of his eyebrows becoming even more exaggerated when they crease with confusion. “Oh…” He mutters, “Sorry…”

“Why are you apologizing?!” Ming Yi snaps, his eye twitching.

“Pandas are bears, you dumbass!”

Right. RIGHT.

“WHO HAS A PANDA IN THEIR MANOR?!”

Hua Cheng gives him the most bizarre look, as though the Crown Prince of Yong’an asked him the rudest question possible, replying

“He lives here.”

Xie Lian doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“JUST—!” Shi Qingxuan flails with her fan, barely managing to avoid getting smacked in the face with another golden foil. “COULD YOU HELP US BEFORE DIAN DIAN THE PANDA GETS HERE?!”

“OH!” Lang Qianqiu nods, leaping to his feet, drawing his sword, “GOT IT!”

And this is where things become slightly problematic for Hua Cheng—because this spiritual weapon—

He frowns when the blade comes into sight, his eyes narrowing.

“Oh,” he mutters, “that’s actually a good one.”

If Xie Lian wasn’t so entirely distracted by the chaos going on around him, he might have wondered how Hua Cheng recognized a Heavenly weapon immediately, just from glancing at it—

But really, he’s more focused on the rapidly unfolding situation.

Like most high level weapons, Lang Qianqiu’s sword has it’s own set of abilities—and in this case, one of them is magnetism.

Powerful enough to draw in the golden foils from around the room, fusing them against the blade itself, making it stronger with each piece added.

Meaning now, Hua Cheng using the Golden Fan is to his own detriment.

Which doesn’t seem to particularly bother the calamity. He simply shrugs, tossing the priceless weapon back on the shelf without a are—and the moment his hand is empty, E’Ming returns to his side.

“Alright, hold on…” Xie Lian tries to speak up, but the two are already moving towards one another, all while Shi Qingxuan is still trying to find a way out, and there’s still the distant roaring. “We—We can still talk this out—!”

But the die is already cast.

Each has already launched their attack on the other—and while Xie Lian has very little worry for Hua Cheng…

It can’t possibly end well for Lang Qianqiu. Which really only leaves him with one choice.

/CLANG!/

There’s a flash of white light, filling the expanse of the room.

Lang Qianqiu’s blade is blown back, nearly flying out of his grip—E’Ming by contrast is merely flicked somewhat to the right—but still, the overall effect of separating the two is achieved.

And while everyone else is blinded, Xie Lian cries out once again—

“I’M REALLY SORRY!”

This time, he gathers up the remaining spiritual power he has left from Shi Qingxuan in his right palm, sending a moderately sized flame out and into the air, striking the roof, punching open a sizable hole.

With a low whistle, Ruoye finally slithers to life—almost sulking, now, that Xie Lian took so long to call for it’s help—but it still binds the five of them together, and he cries out—

“LADY WIND MASTER! LIFT US OUT OF HERE!”

Which seems like a good idea, initially, and Shi Qingxuan obeys, swooping her fan around her until they’re yanked up and through the hole in the ceiling, up into the sky above.

There’s just one thing Xie Lian didn’t consider:

What wind does to a fire, in certain scenarios.

“Lord Wind Master!” He cries, trying to be heard over the howling, “Could you ease off on the fanning now?! You’re going to burn the entire place to the ground!”

“Fine, fine!” Shi Qingxuan grumbles, and he does stop the fan, allowing it to grow stil.

But Xie Lian can already feel the heat coming from the surface, followed by the shocked cries of may ghosts in the city—and he isn’t optimistic.

Still that doesn’t stop Shi Qingxuan from glancing down alongside him commenting—“Well, what do you know—there really is a panda.”

The prince has one hand over his face, groaning. “Is the panda OKAY?!”

“Well,” the Wind Master frowns as they rise further and further in the air, “it’s hard to tell from up here—”

“The panda will be FINE!” Ming Yi grumbles. “Just get us back!”

And Shi Qingxuan does, sweeping his fan out, spinning it through the air until they’re swooped back up towards the heavens.

The entire time, Xie Lian finds himself staring back down at Paradise Manor blindly, his stomach churning with guilt.

Whether or not Hua Cheng truly considered it a home, it was still his—and after all of his hospitality…Xie Lian turned around and destroyed it. Unintentionally, but…

What about the child spirits he saw before? And the ghost fires? Would they be alright?

What has he done?

From the ground below, Hua Cheng watches the group disappear into the stars, his expression dark, unreadable.

Frightened and confused screams echo from the ghosts all around him, no doubt due to the flames.

/Crack!/

With a simple snap of his fingers, the raging fires are reduced to smoldering embers in an instant—and what remains is doused by the crimson rain pouring down.

“Ah! Hua Chengzhu, thank goodness!”

“Look! He saved us from those Heavenly Officials!”

He snaps open his umbrella, lifting it over his head as the citizens of Ghost City shield themselves from the blood rain, hiding under outcroppings of stalls.

“Who do they think they are?! We mind our own business here, why come and start trouble?!”

“Arrogant bastards!”

Hua Cheng does not speak. Has not found the composure to do so.

At his side, E’Ming trembles with regret.

“Ah! Thank god, Ren Song is here!”

Behind him, wearing his true form, Shuo presses his palm to one of the charred pillars of the Manor.

It groans and creaks, shifting.

With the smoke and flames sparking out, the holes in the walls and ceilings of the structure begin to knit back together, new growths of wood stretching over the foundation, patching the manor until it’s largely back to it’s original condition.

In need of a fresh coat of paint—but that’s Yin Yu’s job.

A large beast rumbles across the front courtyard, coming to a stop by the Ghost King’s side. It huffs out a breath, letting out a soft bark.

It sounds almost apologetic.

“…It’s alright, Dian Dian.” Hua Cheng mutters.

He reaches out, fingers landing in the Giant Panda’s fur, stroking—removing any damage from the fire and the tussle with the martial god beforehand.

“You’re the only one who did your job today.”

The Crimson Rain pours down even harder, painting Ghost City red against the night.

In the Heavenly Capitol above, the group of officials (and the ghost child in tow) collapse onto the street as Ruoye unravels from around them.

“Ah, Ming-Xiong, hold onto me,” Shi Qingxuan mutters, sitting up, readying himself to call for help.

But the sight of Xie Lian makes him pause. “…Your highness!” He cries, horrified. “What happened?!”

The prince blinks owlishly, patting his right hand around to try and see if something is amiss. “What is it?”

“Y-YOUR ARM!”

Oh.

His left arm dangles uselessly by his side.

“…It’s alright,” Xie Lian shrugs, attempting to wave off any concern. “It doesn’t hurt.”

In truth, the only reason he notices the injury is because he can’t move the limb at all.

“How did that happen?!”

“Well…”

“He blocked Hua Cheng and Lang Qianqiu’s blows.”

Ming Yi explains it, exhausted and irritated. “He absorbed the force of both.”

Lang Qianqiu’s wasn’t an issue—that would have left him bruised, but his sword was far more damaged than Xie Lian would have been.

The severity of the wound was due to E’Ming.

The force was so extreme, every bone in the limb was shattered, nearly ripping Xie Lian’s limb from his body in the process.

And of course, it is a hindrance, and he’s sorry that the Wind Master had to be disturbed by the sight of the gore, but—

The prince is rather impressed.

What an incredible blow…

Shi Qingxuan can see as much, from the way Xie Lian doesn’t seem pained, simply intrigued. “…That was truly incredible, your highness—but how—?”

Xie Lian shrugs, hugging his arm against his side as he stands.

“I’m a swordsman by trade, remember?”

The Wind Master nods, finally seeming to remember his original purpose as he ushers them into the grand martial hall, calling out—

“We need medical assistance! We have two injured officials here! Hurry!”

“I’m alright,” Xie Lian shakes his head, “have them focus on the Earth Master, please…”

It isn’t long before other officials arrive—the foremost among them Mu Qing, ordering two of his deputies to load Ming Yi onto a stretcher. “What’s going on here?”

“Well…”

Shi Qingxuan starts, pulling Ming Yi’s robes tighter around himself, “We…got into a little trouble in Ghost City, but! We completed our mission, thanks to the Crown Prince of Xianle!”

“…” Mu Qing crosses his arms, raising an eyebrow. “You—?”

“What on EARTH are you wearing?!”

Shi Qingxuan flinches, his smile becoming somewhat nervous, “Gege! Hahaha…I thought…you were busy?”

Shi Wudu bodily shoves a deputy god out of his way, sending him flying as he reaches his brother’s side, carefully examining his bruises, “Did Crimson Rain do this?”

“Uh…”

The Wind Master blinks, shaking his head. “Not exactly…how…was Gusu? I thought you were going there for a few—?”

“I obviously came back when I heard you showed up injured!” His brother snaps. “Just what have you gotten into?” And don’t make me ask about that dress again!”

Honestly, Shi Qingxuan is the furthest from hurt of them all, but he accepts the fussing, allowing his brother to heal his cuts and bruises with spiritual energy. “I had to sneak into Paradise Manor, so I pretended to be a waitress.” He admits, a little sheepish.

“I was in a pretty exposed state before, so Ming-Xiong gave me his outer robes, at least…”

The Water Master glances over at his brother’s counterpart, distracted. “…I see, that’s good. At least one of you has common sense.” He mutters.

Ming Yi doesn’t reply, watching closely.

Mu Qing stands over him, forming a few hand seals, palms glowing with spiritual energy as he begins to work on the wounds covering the earth master’s abdomen. “One of you tend to his highness until I can finish up here,” he mutters. “The injury to his arm seems somewhat serious.”

Xie Lian shrugs, amiable. “I’m alright, there’s no need to worry about that. It’ll heal on it’s own soon enough.”

He’s more familiar with how quickly this body heals than most gods would be—after all, few have had the opportunity to learn.

Shi Qingxuan frowns in his direction for a moment, visibly concerned, but…

Then, he notices something else. Something rather odd.

“Lang Qianqiu,” he mutters, looking over at the Martial God, “Are you alright? I’ve never seen you so quiet.”

Xie Lian doesn’t see the stormy expression on the younger god’s face—only hears further silence, and his own heart squeezes with worry.

“Did I hurt you, before?” He questions, reaching for the younger man’s face with his good hand. “I’m sorry, I was trying to stop the—”

Xie Lian stops when a hand grasps his wrist rather tightly—stopping him before it ever reaches his face, holding it there.

“…Your highness?” He questions softly, his expression pinched with confusion, until—

“You could never hurt me.”

Xie Lian feels his blood run cold.

Lang Qianqiu’s voice is quiet, but it trembles with emotion.

“That was what you told me, back then.”

Xie Lian’s own lips quiver as he hangs his head, everyone else looking on in confusion.

“Xie Lian?” Feng Xin’s voice rings out, signaling his arrival in the grand martial hall.

“What’s going on? Why is he hurt?!”

Xie Lian doesn’t answer. Doesn’t lift his hand. Doesn’t try to pull his wrist from Lang Qianqiu’s grasp.

Now more gods are arriving, but as far as they are concerned, it’s just the two of them.

“I…” Xie Lian whispers, heart in his throat.

“I don’t…”

Even still, while the prince’s grip is like iron, it isn’t harsh.

He isn’t trying to hurt him, even as he glares at the crown prince, fingers reaching out to delicately brush under his chin, making him look up—all while the crowd watches in confusion.

“So,” Lang Qianqiu sounds younger now.

To most people, he sounds thoughtless and naive. But Xie Lian could tell from the moment they met again that he had matured.

Now; however—his voice is wavering, filled with childhood pains, loss…

And lingering, warped affection.

“…This is what you actually look like.”

Lang Qianqiu has spent so many years trying to convince himself that a monster had lain beneath that mask.

That the one who shattered his world was just as hideous as the damage he left behind.

But he isn’t.

He’s incomparable, a kind of beautiful that strains against one’s heart until it aches.

He’s beautiful, and he’s tired—

And he’s in pain.

Lang Qianqiu loathes himself for feeling concern.

“…I suppose that explains why you wore the mask,” he mutters.

He means the shackle, of course, gleaming against Xie Lian’s eye lashes.

The mark of his shame. Of what he truly was.

The hideousness that he always told his pupil lurked beneath, but the prince never believed it.

Even now, hard as he tries, he can’t seem to find it ugly.

Silence fills the room, and Xie Lian’s fingers dangle loosely from where Lang Qianqiu grips him, trembling.

“Your highness,” he whispers again, not knowing what he wants to say—what he can say—and he only bites his lip, falling silent again.

“…Is someone going to explain what’s going on?!” Mu Qing grumbles, looking up from where he’s been treating Ming Yi.

Shi Wudu glares at the scene before him, holding his brother against his side—

But he sees the one thing that the others in the Grand Martial hall do not.

Jun Wu has arrived, standing beside his throne, one hand resting on the arm.

And unlike the others in the room, he doesn’t seem confused. Hell, he doesn’t even seem surprised.

But when Shi Wudu sees the gleam in his eye, he knows—pulling Shi Qingxuan even closer behind him.

Whatever is happening, the Emperor knows the nature behind it.

And he’s pleased.

“…Yes,” Lang Qianqiu mutters, “I think it’s time you explained.”

Xie Lian grimaces, and the prince continues to speak through clenched teeth—

“Isn’t that right, Guoshi?”

Silence falls over the room like a heavy blanket, confusion twisting many expressions—but slowly, it cracks, whispers echoing throughout.

‘What is he talking about?’

‘The laughingstock of the three realms? Someone’s Guoshi? Don’t make me laugh!’

‘But they do seem familiar…’

Xie Lian doesn’t lift his head, doesn’t reply to Lang Qianqiu’s question—

Can’t seem to bring himself to.

Feng Xin, however, has no such qualms—and unlike the others—

“Lang Qianqiu, don’t be rash.”

Xie Lian whips his head around to stare in his former guard’s direction.

He…

Xie Lian’s jaw goes slack, remembering his conversation with Nan Feng on Mount Yu Jun—what seems like a lifetime ago, even if it’s only been a matter of weeks—

Feng Xin knows.

And Lang Qianqiu seems to have come to the same conclusion.

“You knew the entire time, didn’t you?” He mutters—not letting go of Xie Lian, but glaring in Feng Xin’s direction. “You knew he was the Crown Prince of Xianle, and you didn’t say a word when he ascended!”

Xie Lian’s heart sinks, and the pain is bittersweet.

Of course he didn’t, because Feng Xin was doing what he’s always done:

Protecting Xie Lian.

Jun Wu’s voice rings out now, and the entire room falls silent.

“What’s the meaning of this?”

It takes a moment for Lang Qianqiu to respond, his voice trembling.

“…The man who stands before the lot of you is my former Guoshi, Fangxin.”

Startled gasps echo throughout the room at such an accusation.

After all, the crimes of the Guilded Banquet are so cruel, so wicked, that name has been cursed for the last three centuries.

Xie Lian doesn’t respond, doesn’t defend himself—but there is one voice that cries out with indignation.

“Lang Qianqiu!” Shi Qingxuan cries, “How could you say such a thing, after he saved your life from Crimson Rain Sought Flower! Twice, no less!”

The Water Master glances between the two, his expression grim. “Quiet.”

“And if it WAS him, why are you only recognizing him now?! It makes no sense! You—!”

His elder brother’s grip tightens on his shoulders to the point where Shi Qingxuan winces.

Shi Wudu has never once raised a hand to his younger brother—and while he’s always been stern, he’s never been cruel or unfair.

But now, he holds him in a vice grip, snarling in his ear—

“Be quiet, or I’ll make you.”

The younger falls silent, startled.

His brother has never spoken to him like that before. Not once. And he’s certainly never gripped him like this, to the point where it became painful.

Does he have some sort of grudge against Xie Lian? Why would he stop Shi Qingxuan from speaking out on the prince’s behalf?

In the corner, just behind Mu Qing, Ming Yi sits up slightly in his stretcher, one arm thrown across his torso as he surveys the scene.

Watches the way the Water Tyrant snatches his brother out of the confrontation, dark eyes briefly flashing before going still once more.

But he isn’t the only one watching.

Shi Wudu’s eyes flicker to the emperor, only to find the man already staring at them both—and they quickly lower to the floor as he pulls his younger brother behind him.

Still, Lang Qianqiu answers the Wind Master’s question.

“He was the one who trained me in sword fighting. You think I don’t know him the moment he strikes?”

He would be mad if he didn’t—for five years, day in and day out, they trained together. His personality is certainly different now, but his abilities betray him completely.

Now, a new voice speaks up for him—one that Xie Lian couldn’t have expected.

“…But you didn’t recognize him by his face? Or even his voice?” Mu Qing questions softly. “His highness and I trained under the same masters, as did several others. Our styles are similar.”

Xie Lian doesn’t look in Mu Qing’s direction—but his shoulders are stiff with shock.

“He wore a mask the entire time I knew him,” Lang Qianqiu mutters. “He was absolutely insistent on never showing his face—now, it seems he did that in order to hide his cursed shackle.”

It’s an admittedly logical conclusion.

The prince’s hand tightens slightly around Xie Lian’s wrist before he continues;

“His voice was familiar from the beginning,” Lang Qianqiu admits, shaking his head. “But that wasn’t enough to convince me. Not until…”

Until he saw the Prince use a technique only his Guoshi knew.

How to deflect two blades in one strike, absorbing the force of both. Lang Qianqiu begged his master to teach him, but Fangxin always refused.

It was a dangerous technique, he would insist.

Not suited to a prince.

“Still, that’s not enough evidence to presume he’s guilty of such a heinous crime,” Feng Xin steps forward, his hands balled into fists. “The prince and I have known each other since we were children, he would never do such a thing.”

Xie Lian hangs his head even lower.

“…But you didn’t.”

Up until he spoke, Xie Lian had no way of knowing that General Ming Guang was even present—and his words seem to draw irritation from Xie Lian’s former companions.

“General Pei, what are you trying to say?”

“You haven’t known him all that time.”

Mu Qing casts him an irritated look, “I met the prince when we were nearly thirteen years old. I’ve known him practically his entire life.”

“And when I met him, we were seven.” Feng Xin adds. “Are you trying to say our word when it comes to his character doesn’t hold any water?”

“But from my understanding, you didn’t have any contact with him during his second banishment,” Pei counters with a frown, crossing his arms. He doesn’t seem cross or hostile in saying this—

And his point is fair.

“A banishment that was over eight centuries long, as I recall.”

Feng Xin and Mu Qing pale slightly at the reminder of that fact, something the two of them were obviously aware of, but—

“And if we were to put the time you knew him in the perspective of human years…it would be like…”

General Ming Guang glances in Shi Qingxuan’s direction.

The Wind Master grimaces, not wanting to say anything that could worsen Xie Lian’s defense, but—

He can’t resist answering the question, not when it’s been put to him.

“It would be as though General Nan Yang knew him for four months and five days…when he was six months old.”

Shi Qingxuan grimaces slightly, adding—

“Two months, one week, and six days in General Xuan Zhen’s case.”

Pei Ming shrugs, having made his point rather clearly. “Few gods are as old the three of you. Even fewer as old as me. How much have you changed, since you were that age?”

Not very much, if Xie Lian is being honest. Well—not exactly.

Mu Qing does seem to have changed—certainly matured—since the last time they spoke. Even if he prefers to hide that maturity behind a condescending, combative veneer.

Feng Xin, though? He hasn’t changed at all.

But Xie Lian doesn’t completely agree with Pei Ming’s point.

After all, in those terms—Xie Lian’s time with Hong’er was absolutely minuscule by comparison. As though he was snatched from Xie Lian’s life barely more than a couple of chapters into his story.

But it doesn’t feel that way. Not for him.

He loves Hong’er just as much today as he did eighty decades ago. There are some things that don’t change.

He grips the chain around his neck with his free hand, lips trembling.

“…Still,” Feng Xin mumbles, grasping at straws.

“You can’t condemn the man before he’s been given a chance to deny it—”

“I don’t deny it.”

For the first time since Lang Qianqiu called him his Guoshi, Xie Lian speaks out—and his voice sounds very different.

Cold. Detached.

The Crown Prince of Yong’an grits his teeth.

“…You admit it then, that you’re Guoshi Fangxin?”

Xie Lian still doesn’t lift his head, feeling countless eyes on him as he replies—

“I am.”

Surprised gasps echo, and Jun Wu frowns.

“Then I would like to hear your account of what happened the night of the Guilded Banquet.”

“…” Lang Qianqiu’s fingertips have been pressed underneath is chin this entire time—and finally, Xie Lian shrinks away from them. “It’s exactly as the prince said. No need to dig up old wounds any further.”

His former student trembles.

“Guoshi, you—!”

Xie Lian pulls out of his grip entirely, turning away from him.

Even with one arm dangling limply at his side, he seems graceful, approaching the throne, his head held high.

“Your majesty,” he murmurs. “I know it’s presumptuous of me, but I would like to ask a favor.”

Jun Wu raises an eyebrow—after all, it is a bit gutsy, given the situation—but he doesn’t seem offended. “What is it?”

Standing at the foot of his throne—Xie Lian drops heavily to his knees, bowing his head low.

“…Xianle prays that his lord will banish him once more.”

Every eye in the room is locked on the prince—so no one sees the way Mu Qing suddenly turns away, one hand over his mouth, head bent forward. He isn’t touching Feng Xin, but he’s practically hiding his face in the man’s shoulder from that angle.

“…And that he will give Xianle another cursed shackle for his crimes.”

Horrified whispers fill the room.

Feng Xin doesn’t protest Mu Qing’s closeness—only grits his teeth, glaring at the floor, his hands balled into fists.

‘…Can a god even survive four cursed shackles?’

‘Wouldn’t execution be a more human solution, at that point?’

‘It’s the same thing as a slow death sentence…’

“…That would be an extreme response,” Jun Wu replies quietly. “I’ve already sealed your powers, your luck, and your sight, Xianle. What is left to take?”

“…” Xie Lian takes a deep breath, “You could seal my voice.”

Lang Qianqiu can’t look at him—and his friends can’t bring themselves to do so either.

But one gaze lingers on him, from the back of the room.

Sapphire eyes wide, filled with a slow, nauseating realization.

No one else seems to understand it. Unable to grasp what would cause a man to volunteer to be banished—powerless, blind, and mute, without even an ounce of luck to spare him from misfortune.

Even Jun Wu seems unable to fathom it.

“Why would Xianle ask me for such a thing?”

The prince’s lips tremble, and he lowers his head.

“The last time we spoke, I didn’t understand why I still had these shackles,” he whispers.

There were many things Xie Lian didn’t understand, the last time they spoke.

He couldn’t figure out why he felt so alone, here in the heavens. Why he felt so miserable, standing before the rebuilt palace of Xianle. He knew that he wasn’t used to them anymore, that he felt out of place, but—

“I have them, because I destroyed countless lives, and caused so much pain,” the prince lifts his chin, blindly staring up at Jun Wu’s face.

Xie Lian doesn’t deserve to be here.

“I don’t know why I ascended a third time,” he whispers, “but I know that I deserve to be punished.”

The emperor is silent, his face tilted down so he can look at Xie Lian more clearly, his hair slipping over his shoulders, shrouding his expression.

As such, no one can se something rather strange—

That Jun Wu is smiling.

“…Even if he was banished again, he could still ascend once more,” Lang Qianqiu shakes his head. “I don’t want him banished, I just want a proper explanation, or a duel—”

“I agree.” Jun Wu replies, rising to his feet.

“Xianle, your request is denied.”

Those words feel like a kick in the gut, leaving him quietly shaken, his shoulders trembling. Jun Wu’s voice is close, but somehow, it feels rather far away.

“There are details that you aren’t sharing. I can’t administer justice without all of the facts.”

“…But…I—”

“Ming Guang,” Jun Wu speaks over him, “escort the prince to the Palace of Xianle and have him imprisoned there.” He rises to his feet, leaving Xie Lian kneeling and deflated on the floor. “I’ll interrogate him myself, later. We’ll get to the bottom of the matter.”

He turns, whispering something in Ling Wen’s ear—then exits the Grand Martial Hall.

General Pei doesn’t question the order, but when he steps forward, he doesn’t drag Xie Lian from the room roughly, like a prisoner.

He kneels beside the prince, offering a hand to help him up.

Once Xie Lian is on his feet, the general lowers his voice to speak next to his ear.

“I get the feeling that you would tell me you could walk under any circumstances—but you seem seriously injured.”

Xie Lian shrugs, not seeming to care about that in the least.

“My legs are fine, general. I can walk.”

Pei doesn’t protest that point, keeping one hand on his elbow as they exit the Grand Martial Hall—but once they’re out of view of the other gods, he snaps his fingers, causing a stretcher to appear.

“General Pei, it isn’t necessary—”

Before Xie Lian can protest any further, the stretcher sweeps underneath him, taking him off his feet and forcing the prince to lay down.

“You know, in spite of being a shit liar,” Pei comments, walking beside the stretcher, “your poker face isn’t terrible.”

Xie Lian stares up at the sky blindly, his bad arm pressed against his side. “I’m not sure what you mean, general.”

“Even if your pain tolerance is that high—and I believe it might be—you aren’t a fool.” Pei shrugs, his cloak streaming in the breeze.

“Which means you must know walking around like that will only make your body take longer to heal. It’s impractical.”

Xie Lian does know that, and the reminder is enough to make him grimace. “I’m not sure what that has to do with having a poker face.”

“…Because you have everyone convinced that you aren’t proud,” the martial god of the north replies softly, watching as the Crown Prince of Xianle stiffens with surprise. “Maybe you’ve even convinced yourself.”

After a day like this—Xie Lian finds the idea of that laughable.

“…I really don’t know what I would have to be proud of, General.” He mutters, shaking his head.

He was proud, once. When he was young. Cripplingly so.

“Humans are complicated creatures, your highness.” Pei’s boots crunch softly against the stones underfoot.

“We are constantly trying to justify our own existence. That’s what pride is for.”

Xie Lian rolls onto his uninjured side, biting his lip.

And what if he just doesn’t deserve to exist? What then?

“In most cases, it’s more like bargaining with our own flaws.”

Of which Xie Lian has many.

“People will tell themselves all sorts of things. They commit crimes, but then point at the good they did. Or they’ll be cruel to the world, but treasure their families. Win wars, and claim that the result of peace justified the violence.”

Xie Lian’s mouth tightens at the corners, his good hand balling into a fist beside his head.

“…Then what am I bargaining for?” He croaks, curling in on himself. “What good could pride do me?”

Pei is quiet for a moment, watching as they draw close to the Palace of Xianle.

“…I think you take pride in your ability to endure suffering.” He replies, his voice quiet. “That’s the only way someone could come to terms with a lifetime of being punished.”

What a strange pair, they make.

Pei Ming, who has stood at the Emperor’s side longer than any other.

Heaven’s strongest soldier.

Xie Lian, who has fallen further than any—Heaven’s greatest disappointment.

And yet, in this moment—

It feels like Pei might be oddly close to understanding him. Seeing Xie Lian in a way that he is no longer accustomed to.

Without a veil of judgment, or pity.

Xie Lian doesn’t reply to his assertions. Not out of anger, or denial—but simply because he has no idea how to respond to them.

Pei Ming seems to understand as much. After all, he’s got quite a bit of experience when it comes to pride.

His own pride is subversive. He’s proud of his strength. Of his ability to make people fall for the carefree, exuberant personality that he presents to the world. And no one can damage that pride, because they believe that Pei doesn’t care.

But he certainly does.

And he has experience with the overbearing, more obvious types of pride. The kind that puts people at a distance. The kind that becomes self destructive.

Pei Ming as loved many things, many people.

But he’s rarely ever been in love—and both times, it was with someone prideful.

Viciously so.

In the end, it was that pride that made him lose the first.

And while he has no way of knowing it—it’s the same pride that will make him lose the last.

Xie Lian protests no further as he’s delivered to the palace of Xianle, left to rest, and await Jun Wu.

The layout of the place is exactly as it was when he first ascended. Polished floors and marble walls.

Xie Lian drops onto the bed, his head heavy as he lays down, closing his eyes.

“…Hong’er,” he mumbles, reaching up to grasp at the ring beneath his robes, holding on tight.

“…I don’t think I know what to do anymore,” he rolls onto his side, curling his legs up until he’s in a tiny little ball on top of the bedsheets.

It’s been such a long day—his eyes feel heavy, but his chest is tight with misery.

“I can’t stop breaking things,” he whispers.

His friends. Paradise Manor. Lang Qianqiu.

No matter what he does, things always end up like…

Sleep comes for him—but it’s fitful.

‘Guoshi! Did you see me?’

His face should be smooth with slumber, but it contorts.

‘Gege, did you see?’

He squirms, mumbling soundlessly.

‘I won’t let anyone hurt you—not ever again.’

‘I’m not like you, your highness—I’m not beautiful.’

‘…What if I’m ugly on the inside?’

The darkness of sleep feels suffocating. Enclosing.

‘I didn’t want to do that…

Xie Lian chokes, desperately gasping for air.

‘Why did you make me do that?!’

He can’t move. Why—why can’t he move?!

‘GUOSHI!’

‘Your highness, come back…’

He tries to lift his shoulders, but they won’t move—and the air feels stale.

‘Believe me, your highness.’

I do.

He wants to say that.

I believe you.

‘I’m forever your most devoted believer.’

Xie Lian can’t ever seem to cry when he’s awake, but in his sleep, he weeps.

And the words he wants to say never fall out of his mouth.

“I don’t—” He chokes, pressing his palms up, desperate to get away, “I don’t believe you!”

But his hands don’t push free.

They find hard, unforgiving wood.

‘Dianxia…’

The roof of a coffin.

‘What do we do, when faced with the wicked?’

“No…” He moans, kicking out with his feet. “No, no no—”

There’s a trembling voice, whispering in the dark—

‘You aren’t wicked.’

Tears pour down his cheeks, and he fights.

He kicks, and he punches, and he writhes—until suddenly, the coffin shatters, leaving him plunging down into the darkness.

When Xie Lian lands, he hits the ground hard, struggling to push himself up.

And when he does—

He can see.

The cobblestones under his hands. The houses in the city around him.

The sun sinking low over Lang-er Bay.

This was the last thing he ever saw.

‘…Your highness…’

The voice echoes in his mind like a whisper, and Xie Lian swallows thickly, whipping his head around.

Standing alone in the street, black saber in hand, is a young soldier. Tall and slender, dressed in black.

A white mask on his face.

Not the mask that Xie Lian learned to fear, no—

This one is only smiling.

“…Wu Ming?” The prince whispers, trembling like a leaf.

‘Handsome.’

That was what he thought back then, with such finality. Even if he never saw the face underneath that mask.

Xie Lian knew—he must have been handsome.

And it hurts so much more now…

Because he knows what comes next.

“…Don’t,” Xie Lian whimpers.

He lurches to his feet, running across the pavement. “DON’T!”

In the memory, he never got close. Was forced to watch as that mask disappeared beneath the shrouds of screams and darkness.

In his dream, they collide, with Xie Lian throwing his arms around the young man—desperate.

“Don’t leave me,” he gasps, pressing his face into Wu Ming’s shoulder, holding on as tightly as he can.

Those arms wrap around him in return, hugging him close—holding him so tight, it makes Xie Lian cry even harder.

Because he doesn’t want it to end.

“It…It was so hard, after I lost you…” He chokes, weeping as the cold, black scales of the ghost’s armor press against his cheek. “Don’t leave me!”

Then, a frantic thought occurs to him.

The kiss.

Xie Lian—

He never paid Wu Ming back for the kiss, that day.

“I…I still have to pay you back,” he leans back, looking up at that mask, his lips trembling. “Wu Ming—you have to stay, I have to pay you back—!”

The mask tilts forward until it’s pressed against his skin, cool to the touch.

Almost like the ghost is kissing his forehead.

“Don’t worry, your highness.” Xie Lian’s eyes well with tears as he tries to hold on tighter. “You can pay me back next time.”

A choked sob rips from his throat.

“There isn’t a next time, Wu Ming,” he whispers. “You never came back.”

His reply brings Xie Lian’s world to a halt

“Don’t be afraid, your highness.”

Xie Lian’s tears begin to slow as he stares into that mask, eyes widening.

“I’ll always come back.”

The prince’s lips tremble as he reaches up, pressing his palms against that mask.

That voice…is so familiar.

“…It’s you?” He whispers.

His fingers curl underneath the edges of the white, clay surface of Wu Ming’s mask, and for just a moment—

He feels one of his fingertips brush over something like leather.

An eyepatch.

Xie Lian’s hard beats in his throat.

“San—?”

/CRASH!/

Then, everything shatters.

There’s black smoke all around them—and then, there’s no them.

No Wu Ming.

Just Xie Lian—and he’s falling.

Far and fast, clawing and flailing for something to hold onto—but eventually, something does.

/Creak…/

His feet dangle, twitching underneath him.

/Creak…/

There’s something around his neck in a vice grip, blocking his airway—but he doesn’t suffocate.

He won’t, he already knows that.

Xie Lian’s hands reach up, clawing uselessly at his throat.

“…Ruoye,” he croaks, listening to that awful, wooden sound.

/Creak…/

/Creak…/

“H…hel—”

“Go.”

Xie Lian didn’t say that.

But the bandage around his neck coils tighter, hoisting him higher, and higher—

“NO!”

His voice doesn’t sound like his own.

“Not like this—” he cries, building into a scream, “NOT LIKE THIS!”

When he opens his eyes, looking down—

Xie Lian sees himself.

Wearing long sleeved mourning robes, cursed shackles burning up at him in the dark.

“No one will even mourn you,” he sneers hatefully, blood dripping from the sword in his hand.

He knows.

Xie Lian knows that.

He turns his head, finding Wu Ming sitting there, in the corner—holding a lantern with a ghost fire against his chest, watching the scene.

A broken man, avenging a murderer.

But…

/Creak…/

He lungs burn.

Xie Lian is the murderer now, dangling over his own crime scene.

And when he stares down at his younger self now, his heart twists with shame.

He doesn’t—

Xie Lian’s fingers claw at Ruoye a little more desperately, trying to break free.

He doesn’t want to be that person anymore.

The prince squeezes his eyes shut.

He doesn’t—

/CRACK!/

There’s a snap, followed by a thud, then—

/CRACK!/

Then, another.

Xie Lian opens his eyes, and when he does—

His parents are there, dangling in front of him. Eyes wide and unseeing.

Xie Lian never actually saw them, before.

H-how is he…?

“…No,” he moans, writhing. “NO!”

/CRACK!/

This time, Ruoye snaps from around his neck—and he’s falling again.

Plummeting through the dark.

But this time, when he’s caught—it isn’t by his throat, but by his wrists—arms yanked up and over his head.

/Clink…/

/Clink…/

Not the sound of wraith butterflies.

/Clink…/

Not silver bells, either.

/Clink…/

Xie Lian is all too familiar with the sound of chains.

And when he opens his eyes this time, he finds himself on an altar.

There’s no noose around his neck now, but the god still can’t breathe.

All around him, it’s a temple.

It’s a cold unlike anything else he’s ever known. Rushing through his lungs, piercing him to the bone.

“…Let me go,” he whispers, his wrists straining against his bonds. “WHY WON’T YOU LET ME GO?!”

Finally, that voice answers.

The one he never wanted to hear again.

“I’ve already told you so many times, my prince.” His voice echoes against the walls without a form, but Xie Lian can hear it.

Heavy footsteps, and a metallic scrape across the floor.

That of a sword being dragged against the marble.

“Have you forgotten so easily?”

Now, that voice whispers next to his ear, and Xie Lian tries to cringe away, only for a hand to lock around his hip, holding him in place.

“I will never leave you,” he croons, breath fanning over the prince’s neck as he struggles, terrified whimpers ripping from his throat.

“I’m the only one who will never leave you.”

Xie Lian feels lips press against his hair, nausea building in his throat—along with this overwhelming sense of helplessness and despair.

Because it’s true.

He hollowed something out inside of Xie Lian, long ago.

Stole something.

As hard as he tries, Xie Lian has never been able to take that back.

And in that empty space inside of him, something dark lurks there. Something he would slice himself to pieces to remove, if it wouldn’t always come back.

Like a parasite refusing to leave it’s host.

He doesn’t flinch when the sword slides into him. Doesn’t scream, when he feels it go all the way through.

It hurts, but it always does.

Blood drips from his chin, and fingers reach out to brush it away, delicately patting over his lip.

“You know…”

Xie Lian goes still.

Slowly, he lives his chin, and standing between his legs—

He’s there.

Holding Xie Lian by the chin, raven and silver streaked hair blowing gently in the breeze from the ruined temple.

A mask stares back at him.

Half smiling, half crying.

“…You have always had the most beautiful eyes.”

Finally, Xie Lian screams.

Blood curdling, ripping from him over and over again, rattling against the walls.

And he can’t stop.

Fighting to get away, blood pouring down, listening—

Listening to that horrible laugh.

“H-Help—!”

He chokes, “HELP ME! S-SOMEONE, HELP ME—!”

There’s another stab, this time in his left arm, sinking in, twisting until he can’t take it, screaming over and over.

“HELP, GOD—PLEASE, JUST—LET ME DIE! SOMEONE—IT HURTS!” He sobs, “IT HURTS, IT—!”

He sits up.

“IT HURTS!”

Now—it’s dark.

No temple, no screaming, no laughing—

And no masks.

Xie Lian struggles to catch his breath, trembling—and he hears a shocked voice from beside him say—

“I would have helped before, but you told me to look after Ming Yi first.”

The god blinks, breathing hard.

“…Mu Qing?” He whispers, his voice trembling and unsure. “Is that you?”

“…” The Martial God nods, watching the prince with a frown. He’s gone completely pale, trembling like a leaf. “…Yeah,” he mutters. “Are you alright? Has the pain gotten worse?”

After all, he just sat up shrieking, ‘IT HURTS’ at the top of his lungs, so Mu Qing would assume that it has.

“…No,” Xie Lian mutters, struggling to regain control over his breathing. “It’s…I…”

He falls silent, taking long, slow breaths, eyes squeezed shut.

Mu Qing stares at him, his expression pinched with concern as he watches all of the anxiety and terror fade from the prince’s face, returning to a calm mask.

There’s also faint rumbling in the distance, but he’s too distracted to focus on that now—

“I’m sorry about that.”

Xie Lian’s voice is completely even—back to it’s usual, tranquil tone. “I was having a bit of a nightmare. I hope I didn’t scare you.”

“…” Mu Qing stares, trying not to look at him like he has a second head, though he supposes it doesn’t really matter if he does or not.

“No,” he mutters. “You didn’t. Do you…have dreams like that often?”

“…Yes,” Xie Lian agrees quietly. “But I’ve already forgotten it—so it’s no harm, no foul.”

Mu Qing finds himself struggling to agree, but still—he goes back to attending the prince’s arm.

“…Did Crimson Rain really do this to you?” He questions, his hands glowing with spiritual energy as he works on mending bone and sinew.

“It wasn’t his fault, he wouldn’t have harmed me intentionally,” Xie Lian mutters, quick to defend him—and then, he notices they aren’t alone.

Feng Xin is leaning against the wall, his arms crossed—his eyes fixed on the prince.

There’s a lot on his mind, leaving him strained—the same could be said for both of Xie Lian’s friends.

A cloud hangs over them both.

At first, Xie Lian assumes it’s because of what Pei said.

After all, it clearly seemed to bother the two of them, but—

“Lang Qianqiu told me everything that happened, when you sent him to me.” Feng Xin mutters, his voice tense.

Xie Lian’s chest sinks.

“…I’m sorry for placing such a burden on you, Feng Xin.” He hangs his head.

“When I told him that, I had no idea what was going to happen.”

“…” Mu Qing snorts, sending the prince an annoyed look.

But there’s fondness underneath it.

“Fool,” he sighs, shaking his head. “You realize when you say it like that, it’s obvious that it wasn’t your doing?”

Xie Lian doesn’t respond to that, biting his lip. He never thought he could attempt to lie about what happened, not to his old friends.

Regardless of Pei’s point from before—they never would have believed it.

But that point was never up for debate, and Feng Xin doesn’t care.

“How long were you in there?”

Mu Qing tenses, his hand sign faltering, making his spiritual energy flicker—and Xie Lian frowns.

“I don’t—?”

“Lang Qianqiu told me everything, when he came to me. About what happened, and what he did.” Feng Xin repeats firmly.

Xie Lian’s stomach sinks.

“How long were you in there?”

Now, there’s no avoiding it. He knows exactly what Feng Xin is asking about.

The Coffin.

“…” He hangs his head, and his voice goes quiet. “…Not too long,” he mutters. “I don’t like talking about it.”

Feng Xin crosses his arms, waiting—and when Xie Lian shrinks under the weight of his gaze, Mu Qing frowns.

“He just said that he doesn’t want to talk about it—”

“And I’m sure you’d be happy if you didn’t,” Feng Xin hisses, “since you refused to help me look for him.”

It was the worst fight they ever had. They didn’t speak for nearly a hundred years, afterwards.

“…Because it sounded fucking CRAZY!” Mu Qing snaps, lowering his hands from Xie Lian’s arm. “And you never found him, so why does it matter that I didn’t agree?!”

He sounds defensive, his lips pulling back into a sneer—but Xie Lian can hear what Feng Xin can’t.

Just how fast Mu Qing’s heart is beating.

“Well, let’s check and see how crazy it is now, alright?” Feng Xin snarls. “Your highness, did Lang Qianqiu lock you in a coffin?”

“Uh…” Xie Lian tries to twiddle his thumbs, but his right arm is still limp—so he’s left scratching the side of his head, somewhat awkward. “Well…I don’t know if he locked it, per-say…More like…gravity did most of the work…keeping the lid down…”

“Ah.”

Feng Xin sounds so deeply frustrated, like this has been building up inside of him for so long with Mu Qing belittling his concerns, Xie Lian can’t find it in himself to blame him for this outburst—

…But he really wishes it had come up at a better time.

“So, he buried him in the coffin.” He mutters flatly, glaring at Mu Qing. “I’m two for two.”

“…” Mu Qing crosses his arms, and when he speaks up, he does so in the driest tone Xie Lian has ever heard.

“Would you be less pissed at me if it had been a Mausoleum situation?”

Xie Lian actually lets out a small snort, clapping his hands over his mouth, and Feng Xin glances over at him, appalled.

“How could you LAUGH about that?!”

“Maybe he’s coping!” Mu Qing snaps. “Either way, he doesn’t want to talk about it, so MOVE ON!”

“He probably doesn’t want to talk about it because it makes YOU look like a piece of shit!” Feng Xin pushes off of the wall.

“Once AGAIN!” Mu Qing throws his hands up. “You didn’t find him either! So, why does it MATTER if I helped or not?!”

“Because you’re SMARTER than me!”

Feng Xin’s hands are trembling at his sides, balled up into fists. “If you had helped me look—maybe we would have—!”

“Well, it couldn’t have been THAT long!” Mu Qing stands up, his chair screeching across the floor. “He would have prayed for help if it was!”

The look on Feng Xin’s face turns absolutely venomous. “You’re so fucking determined that nothing is ever your fault, you’ll just try to deny the situation?!”

Mu Qing barks out a laugh, shaking his head.

“And YOU are so hellbent proving that I’m a piece of shit, you’ll actually ADMIT that you’re a DUMBASS!”

“I—both of you—”

“HOW LONG WAS IT?!” Feng Xin sounds like he might be on the verge of having a stroke, and Xie Lian is startled enough to reply.

“…A…little while…”

He mumbles in a small voice, and it becomes clear to both of the men listening—

‘A little while’ means a length of time. It doesn’t sound brief.

“W-Well…” Mu Qing swallows hard, and Xie Lian hears his heart pounding even faster. “He still would have prayed if he needed help!”

“Maybe he didn’t think he COULD because of the circumstances!”

“Oh, of COURSE he could have prayed to you,” Mu Qing sneers, “his most loyal, self righteous, JUDGMENTAL—” He pauses, eyes widening with fake shock as he taps his chin. “Oh, you know what? I’m seeing your point.”

“YOU—!”

“Oh, but don’t worry!” The martial god shakes his head, “I NEVER was under any impression that he would EVER ask for my help, or pray to me. AND YOU’RE WONDERING WHY I DIDN’T HELP YOU LOOK?!”

Xie Lian and Feng Xin stop, staring.

Mu Qing’s voice is shaking.

“I DIDN’T THINK HE WOULD WANT ME TO FIND HIM!”

“…” Feng Xin presses his hands to his temples, wracked with regret.

The argument was so long ago, and Feng Xin was so young back then. So hurt, and lost, and desperate for someone to blame—

But Mu Qing doesn’t forget anything.

And it doesn’t matter, if Feng Xin wishes he could take it back.

Xie Lian swallows hard, trying to think of something, anything to make him feel better, and unwittingly—

“…I did pray to you, Mu Qing.”

—it’s the worst thing he could have possibly said.

Feng Xin and Mu Qing are frozen in place, their eyes blown eye—one accusatory, infuriated—

(Briefly assuming that Mu Qing had heard Xie Lian’s prayers all that time and said nothing.)

—and the other confused, horrified.

“…What?” Mu Qing croaks, and he—

He sounds undone.

“I—I didn’t—”

“It was before all of that,” Xie Lian explains quickly—and all he wants is to make Mu Qing see that he wasn’t despised. “Early in my first banishment, I went to one of your temples, and I started to pray, but…”

The prince bites his lip.

“…I didn’t think you would want to hear from me,” he whispers, wrapping one arm around himself.

He isn’t used to being around other people like this, after waking up from a nightmare.

The only one who ever used to deal with that was Hong’er—and he—

He would just hold him.

Even when he was still smaller than Xie Lian, he would hold the prince tightly in his arms, whispering—

‘It was just a dream, dianxia. You’re alright now.’

And it made him feel safe.

Now, surrounded by tension, chaos, and yelling—

He just feels raw, shaken, and exposed.

There’s a long beat of silence, and now—Feng Xin sounds like he’s calmed down, more focused on Xie Lian’s visible distress.

“…Your highness, of course we—”

/SMACK!/

The sound is so resounding, even Xie Lian winces, and Feng Xin—

He’s been kicked before. Punched. Bitten. Scratched. That’s part of being in combat, and that’s where he’s been all his life.

But he’s never been backhanded so hard, that he feels his eyes rattling around inside their sockets. So hard, that it makes him stumble backwards.

“…What…” He winces, spitting out blood as he rubs his jaw, feeling somewhat concussed. “…What the fuck?!”

“You…” Mu Qing snarls, and Xie Lian—

He’s heard his friend angry before, but Mu Qing typically has a cold, antagonistic anger.

Not like this.

“You fucking ASSHOLE!”

Mu Qing sounds utterly incensed, leaping on the man, punching him so hard, Feng Xin’s head leaves a dent in the wall.

“WHAT THE—?!”

“YOU HAD ME CONVINCED…FOR CENTURIES…THAT HE WOULD NEVER WANT TO TALK TO ME!”

“Feng Xin, Mu Qing, don’t—”

“I’M SORRY!” Feng Xin glares, struggling to wrestle him off as they roll around on the floor. “IT WAS A SHITTY THING TO SAY, AND I’M SORRY! WHEN HAVE YOU EVER SAID THAT?!”

“WHY SHOULD I APOLOGIZE TO SOMEONE WHO DOESN’T RESPECT ME?!” Mu Qing thrashes, fighting to get a punch in.

“WHEN DID I EVER SAY I DIDN’T RESPECT YOU?!”

Xie Lian curls up against the wall, pressing his knees to his chest. He can cover his ear with one hand—the other he presses against the inside of his knee. “Please, just—”

“YOU DON’T!”

Mu Qing snarls, abandoning every bit of training he’s ever received. Normally, they’re equal in combat skills—but right now, he’s too upset to think, just blindly clawing at him. “YOU WOULDN’T TREAT ME LIKE THAT IF YOU RESPECTED ME!”

“WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!”

Xie Lian would honestly like to know the same thing, because it feels like he’s missing a lot. Still, it’s so loud, and his teeth are chattering—

“IN CASE YOU DIDN’T NOTICE, YOU’RE NO SAINT YOURSELF—!”

“BUT YOU’RE PATIENT WITH EVERYONE ELSE!” Mu Qing cries.

“AND YOU LISTEN! AND YOU WORRY ABOUT THEM—AND YOU GIVE THEM THE BENEFIT OF THE DOUBT!”

Well, not everyone else, but—

The prince is starting to understand.

Xie Lian.

Feng Xin is all of those things—when it comes to him.

They must be fighting pretty hard—because it feels like the ground is rattling from the force of it.

But all Xie Lian can focus on is the fact that…

“YOU GIVE EVERYONE ELSE YOUR BEST!”

…Mu Qing sounds genuinely hurt.

“But…But never ME!”

His following punch doesn’t have as much energy as it did before—but Feng Xin doesn’t even try to stop it, letting it land on his cheek.

The two stare at one another, breathing hard, a little lost, and—

/Clink!/

Xie Lian jumps, turning his head, and—

There’s a butterfly.

Sitting on his shoulder, it’s body tilted back to look up at him, wings flapping gently.

And there’s another, hovering in the air just a few inches from his face.

Eyes wide, he instinctively reaches out, and, well—

He can’t see that the butterfly is hovering inside a portal.

But the moment the butterfly lands on his finger, he hears both of his friends launch themselves to their feet, struggling to get to him.

“YOUR HIGHNESS—DON’T TOUCH THAT—!”

Xie Lian frowns, wanting to tell them that there’s nothing to worry about, but—

Something has already grasped his wrist, pulling him in—and with that, he sees countless wraith butterflies flooding past him, firing into the Palace of Xianle, knocking his friends back before they can get to him.

“…CRIMSON RAIN!” Feng Xin cries.

“YOU HAVE A LOT OF NERVE, BREAKING INTO THE HEAVENS LIKE THIS!”

“…Funny,” Hua Cheng’s voice rings out from beside him, and—

Xie Lian would be lying if he said his heart didn’t swell.

“That was exactly what I was telling a few Heavenly Officials last night—in my territory.”

He has a fair point there, but Mu Qing still struggles, batting away butterflies as he fumbles for his saber. “THE EMPEROR IS IN THE CITY!” He shouts over the shrieking of the butterflies. “YOU WON’T GET AWAY WITH THIS!”

It’s no small threat, but…

Hua Cheng laughs.

“You people really are unbelievable…” He mutters, shaking his head. “If his majesty has a problem—he knows where to find me.”

When Hua Cheng says, ‘your highness’ or ‘dianxia’ in reference to Xie Lian—it’s always with the highest level of respect.

(And, if Xie Lian was honest enough with himself to admit it—something else.)

But when he says ‘your majesty?’

The title drops from his lips like an insult.

And just like that, the portal snaps shut—leaving the Heavens, and everything with it behind.

It takes Xie Lian a moment to realize that they’re in a tunnel—much like the ones that he and Shi Qingxuan were stumbling through the night before, but…

Admittedly, probably more stable—since Hua Cheng is the intended user of the array.

It…even reaches inside the Heavens?

“Dianxia,” the sound of Hua Cheng’s voice startles him out of his thoughts. And he sounds…bothered. “Are you alright?”

Is that…really what he’s asking right now?

Xie Lian’s stomach twists with remorse.

After everything he…

“…” The prince shakes his head.

Hua Cheng’s expression darkens, but before he can say more—

“I’m so, so sorry San Lang…” Xie Lian croaks, hanging his head.

The Ghost King takes a step back, staring down at him with disbelief. “…What should you be sorry for?”

“Your—Paradise Manor, I…I never meant to…”

“…Of course you didn’t,” Hua Cheng agrees quietly. “I know that.”

Xie Lian lets out a shuddering breath that he never realized he was holding, and…

He can’t remember the last time someone just…believed that he had good intentions.

“I’m the one who should be apologizing.”

The god pauses, startled by just how…bitter Hua Cheng sounds.

How self loathing.

“…What?” He blinks, “I, uh…I don’t think that’s how these situations work.”

What’s he supposed to say?

‘Dianxia, I am SO sorry that you lied to me, spied on me, and burned down my house!’

‘I’ll do better next time! I’ll let you mount my panda on the wall too!’

Speaking of—

“Is Dian Dian okay?” He blurts out, his lips trembling with worry, and—

Hua Cheng lets out a tired chuckle shaking his head—and the way he looks at Xie Lian…

They might be in the middle of a dark tunnel, but judging by the look on Hua Cheng’s face alone—it’s like he has the entire world set within his gaze.

“Dian Dian is fine,” he mutters. “Paradise Manor is fine. No harm done.”

“…Really?” Xie Lian’s voice is small, unsteady.

“Really,” Hua Cheng assures him, only faltering when his eye reaches Xie Lian’s shoulder, his expression falling back into open self loathing. “…I wish I could say the same for you.”

“Oh—this?” Xie Lian shrugs, waving it off. “I’m the one who jumped in the middle.”

And chose to use a technique that would hurt himself, rather than the two involved. Really, it’s entirely his own fault.

“Besides, this really isn’t that bad,” he smiles, using his good arm to lift up the bad one, trying to wave it off like normal. “I get worse all the time!”

Somehow, that doesn’t seem to make Hua Cheng feel better.

“I—really, I’m okay, I promise—”

“Dianxia?” The ghost king interrupts him.

“…Yes?”

“Come here, please.”

“…” Xie Lian isn’t sure why he wants him to do that, but he steps closer, all the same.

Hua Cheng reaches out, taking his good hand—and, much to Xie Lian’s confusion, he feels himself being guided to sit down on the tunnel floor, with the Ghost King kneeling before him.

“Do you trust me?”

“I do.” Xie Lian replies immediately, blinking up at him.

“But why…?”

Hua Cheng takes his other hand, the injured one, grasping it so carefully—even if Xie Lian were sensitive to pain—he doubts it would hurt anyway.

“We don’t have a much time,” he explains softly. “It’s the fastest method.”

Method for what—?

Then, Xie Lian feels lips against his knuckles—and his face rapidly begins to heat up.

…Oh.

There’s a tingling that shoots into his skin—different from the kind he’s felt the other times that Hua Cheng has touched him—this time it feels…warm.

Powerful.

And with it, he can feel the bones in his hand—which Mu Qing didn’t get very far into healing before Feng Xin’s interruption—begin knitting back together, cracking into place.

At first, he’s still confused.

It was considerate of Hua Cheng to ask if Xie Lian was comfortable—but he’s kissed the prince’s hand before, and he didn’t ask back then. So, why now—?

Then, he feels the sleeve of his robe being pushed up, ever so gently, and—

Hua Cheng’s mouth is on the inside of his wrist.

And with that, Xie Lian feels the bones and sinew there moving back into place.

T-that would be why, then.

“You…” His voice cracks slightly, and he stops, embarrassed, clearing his throat before trying again, “You really don’t have to—”

“Is this making dianxia uncomfortable?”

“Um…” Xie Lian swallows hard, shaking his head. “No, I trust you, it’s just…you don’t have to go through the…”

Hua Cheng’s lips brush his forearm, and he shudders, biting his lip so hard, it throbs under his teeth.

“S-San Lang, I—”

‘YOUR HIGHNESS!’

Xie Lian nearly jumps out of his skin when Feng Xin’s voice roars through the general communication array. ‘WHERE ARE YOU?!’

‘What’s going on?’

‘The prince has escaped!’

‘Escaped?! HE HASN’T ESCAPED, YOU IDIOTS! CRIMSON RAIN SOUGHT FLOWER KIDNAPPED HIM!’

Well. Xie Lian thinks that’s a rather ungenerous way of describing it. Yanked into a magical portal or not, if Hua Cheng had asked him, he would have gone willingly.

“Is everything alright, your highness?”

“…Yes,” Xie Lian mumbles, a little strained.

“There’s just a bit of a commotion in the communication arr—oh—”

He gasps softly when he’s pulled forward, until he’s—well—

Sitting astride the ghost king’s lap on the tunnel floor, his heart pounding in his throat.

“W-What are you—?”

Cool fingertips press against his temple.

Then, speaking through Xie Lian—

‘Long time, no see,’ Hua Cheng’s voice comes through the general array in a low, arrogant drawl, not louder than the overwhelming din of voices, but still— ‘How is everyone doing?’

Everyone stops to listen in outraged silence.

The ghost king strokes the inside of Xie Lian’s wrist with a slight smile, his fingers brushing against the God’s ear as he continues;

‘I don’t know if you guys missed me—but I haven’t thought about any of you at all.’

It’s not a very subtle threat.

Talking to the Heavenly Court like they’re mere ants to him. And in all honesty—most of them are.

Come and chase me if you dare.

That’s the message.

And if they do, Hua Cheng will devour them.

In retrospect, Xie Lian probably should feel concerned about that. In theory.

But he meant what he said before—he trusts Hua Cheng. Whatever his reasons for snatching Xie Lian up from the heavens were…he’s certain that the Ghost King means him no harm.

While all of the other officials have gone quiet in the array, feng Xin and Mu Qing are still trying.

‘There has to be a way to follow them, right?’ Feng Xin huffs. ‘It’s just a traveling array, right? Can’t Ming Yi find us a way in?!’

‘He’s sleeping off his injuries,’ Mu Qing replies. The two are stiff, but with the prince in danger, they’re begrudgingly working together.

‘He’d be no good to us right now anyway.’

Now, Shi Qingxuan’s voice cuts in eagerly.

‘Oh, oh, I know! Me! Me!’

‘…What is it, Lord Wind Master?’ Mu Qing questions flatly.

‘You have to roll the dice and get the right combination! …Here! You two try it!’

…Oh boy.

Xie Lian has half a mind to warn them, but…

/Clack!/

/Clack!/

Before he gets the chance, they’re already in action.

‘What’d you get?’ Mu Qing mutters, and Feng Xin replies—

‘Two fours.’

Xie Lian’s stomach sinks as he looks to HUa Cheng.

“Isn’t that the spider room?”

The Ghost King raises an eyebrow. “…The what?”

“Two fours,” Xie Lian explains quickly, trying to keep up with what’s happening in the array at the same time. “Doesn’t that take you to the hallway with the spiders?”

“Oh,” Hua Cheng shakes his head.

“It’ll just show whatever one person in the group of travelers fears the most.”

Well.

Xie Lian grimaces.

That certainly explains a lot.

And Just as he thinks that, Mu Qing’s voice breaks the silence, and he sounds…

Somewhere between amusement and utter irritation.

‘You have GOT to be kidding!’

‘Xuan Zhen?!’ Shi Qingxuan calls out into the array, clearly concerned, ‘Are the two of you alright?!’

‘We’re IN A WOMAN’S BATH HOUSE!’

Feng Xin’s voice echoes throughout, panicked, ‘I-I APOLOGIZE MA’AM—COULD YOU PLEASE—PUT THAT AWAY—!’

‘GIVE ME THE DICE!’ Mu Qing screams, and there’s a brief bout of wrestling, until—

/Clack, Clack!/

Xie Lian waits, hoping they lucked out and just ended up back in Paradise Manor, or something like that, but—

‘OH, GREAT, NOW THERE’S CROCODILES!’

‘AT LEAST IT ISN’T INDECENT!’

Hua Cheng’s fingertips brush over his temple again, and the communication array goes quiet. The prince pauses, looking up—and he explains—

“I’ll bring it back, later. It was too loud.” The Ghost King murmurs.

Xie Lian lets out a shaky sigh, nodding with relief.

It’s a short lived easing of tension, because as soon as the prince relaxes, there’s lips at the bend of his elbow, pressing against sensitive skin, making his breath hitch.

“San Lang…I’m…I’m okay,” he mumbles, finding the close contact even more embarrassing when they’re…

Well—sitting like this, with Xie Lian straddling the Ghost King’s lap.

“You’re not,” the calamity replies, his voice burning with regret. “But if dianxia tells me to stop, I will.”

“…”

Xie Lian has the feeling that if he stops Hua Cheng before he’s completely healed, the ghost king will be miserable. So…

“…I guess you might as well finish, since you started…” He mumbles, breathing in through his nose, out through his mouth, trying to steady his heartbeat.

Hua Cheng smiles against his elbow, and Xie Lian struggles to distract himself from the intimacy of it all. After all, that isn’t Hua Cheng’s intention, he’s just trying to be helpful.

“So, um…” He bites his lip, shivering. “Is…rolling snake eyes the way to get to you?”

“Hmm?” Hua Cheng questions, his mouth still pressed against the bones of the prince’s elbow, and Xie Lian explains—

“Before, when I fell into the armory…I’m pretty sure I rolled snake eyes,” he explains. “Is that what I would have to roll again to make you appear?”

“No.”

Hua Cheng’s eye flashes as he looks up at him through his lashes, and Xie Lian can see his spiritual power twinkling in the dark.

“…I see. I thought—”

“It doesn’t matter what you roll,” he explains, lifting his mouth from Xie Lian’s arm. “If you call for me, I will come.”

Oh.

Xie Lian clears his throat, his heart stuttering. “I…but back in the Heavenly Capitol, I didn’t…call…”

As a matter of fact, he didn’t even roll the dice.

Hua Cheng lifts his head, sitting back up until they’re eye level.

For once, it’s a relief to him that Xie Lian can’t see the look on his face. The pain in his eyes.

Because even if he asked, Hua Cheng wouldn’t be able to explain it to him.

“…Yes, you did.” He whispers.

Xie Lian stares, blinking with confusion, his shackle gleaming.

“But—?”

Before he can ask what Hua Cheng means, he feels his robes being shifted to the side—ever so carefully—until his left bicep and shoulder are exposed to the open air, making him shiver.

“Are you—? Oh!”

The ghost’s mouth presses against his upper arm in a featherlight kiss.

Now, Xie Lian feels his face growing completely red, burning so hot that he has to fight the urge to fan himself.

He—

The bones and muscle in his upper arm begin to reassemble, pulling back together, and the prince’s nostrils flare.

Hua Cheng is helping.

This. Is. Medical.

He tries to remind himself of that, over and over again as Hua Cheng’s mouth creeps higher over his muscle, and when it reaches the top of his arm—

A small noise slips out of Xie Lian’s mouth, his good hand coming up ti clutch at Hua Cheng’s shoulder.

“Dianxia?”

Xie Lian swallows hard, his eyelashes fluttering.

“Are your alright?” The ghost king whispers against his skin, drawing another shiver, and if Xie Lian didn’t know any better—

He would say that Hua Cheng was smiling.

“…I’m fine,” he croaks, biting his lip. “Just…um…”

Xie Lian knows that Hua Cheng must be aware that he’s…unsettled. After all, his heart is pounding, and he can barely breathe—

“I—uh, I was numb before,” Xie Lian fumbles through an explanation, praying that he doesn’t sound insane. “But, uh…now I’m, um…”

“…It hurts?” Hua Cheng inquires, his voice impossibly gentle, and Xie Lian shivers, his fingers clutching the ghost king’s shoulder a little tighter.

“Uh…” he swallows hard, bobbing his head quickly. “A…A little…”

(It’s a really bad attempt at a lie—his voice cracks.)

And that crack turns into a mortifying squeak when Hua Cheng’s arm wraps around his waist, pulling him in even closer, until Xie Lian is completely sitting on top of him, and—

That kiss isn’t exactly featherlight anymore, it’s—

It’s heavy, and Xie Lian’s breath leaves him.

“I’ll be quick then, your highness,” the Ghost King whispers against his skin. “Just hold on a little longer.”

True to his word, Xie Lian feels power surging into his skin—a daunting amount—and with it, his shoulder cracking into place, left arm no longer limp.

Xie Lian tilts his head to the side, his breaths coming faster, fingers trembling and digging into Hua Cheng’s shoulder slightly, struggling to string his thoughts together.

He…this…

There’s a warm pit in his stomach, a nearly unfamiliar. But where has he felt that before?

It’s not unpleasant, not exactly—just this weird…stirring sensation, like his muscles are tensing, but not because he told them to—and when he thinks back on it, he must have been a teenager—

Oh.

Oh no.

A high pitched noise escapes Xie Lian’s throat, his eyes wide.

Ethics sutra. Ethics sutra. He needs the—

“Does it still hurt?” Where Hua Cheng’s mouth sits on his shoulder—it makes his breath hit the side of Xie Lian’s neck in a way that makes him shiver.

“It—It’s much better—!” Xie Lian mutters, fighting to keep his voice composed.

He’s chanting in his head quickly, anxiety building in his chest. It’s—It’s not like anyone could tell at the moment, but if he doesn’t get those feelings under control, it would be…visible, and he—

Hua Cheng is just trying to help, what’s wrong with him?

Why is he reacting like this? If the ghost knew what Xie Lian was thinking, he would probably be horrified—

There’s one frantic moment where, probably due to how much time he’s spent with Shi Qingxuan in the last couple of days, he considers changing into a female form.

After all, if he did that, no one would be able to tell, right?

But how would he explain that? He isn’t worshipped in male or female forms, as Shi Qingxuan so kindly pointed out before, he doesn’t have an excuse to change! What would Hua Cheng even think?!

And he feels some of Hua Cheng’s power pulsing through him from the healing process, but most of that is going towards putting Xie Lian’s arm back together. Would he even have enough—?

“Does dianxia need me to—?”

Of course, there’s a hazard of speaking against someone’s skin, particularly when you’re Hua Cheng, and it’s something that they both seem to learn about at the same time, when his canine, ever so slightly, brushes against Xie Lian’s skin.

“Oh…”

Xie Lian’s mouth drops open, and the way he says that—it’s not like he was talking. Or whispering, really. It was—kind of like—

Possibly a moan. But it definitely didn’t hurt, so—

Is the tunnel spinning, or is he just…?

“…Did I hurt you?”

Unlike before, which, if Xie Lian was being completely honest, he’d have to admit that Hua Cheng was being a little playful—

Now, he sounds genuinely concerned.

“No!” Xie Lian shakes his head, “Not at all, I was just—s-surprised!”

The ghost lets out a soft sigh of relief, and since it’s still right up against his skin, Xie Lian lets out another shiver, knees unconsciously tightening around Hua Cheng’s hips, still holding onto his shoulder, and he feels the Ghost King start to stiffen against him.

“Your—?”

Hua Cheng is interrupted, but not by Xie Lian.

“…GUOSHI?!”

Xie Lian’s skin can’t seem to decide whether or not it wants to be flushed with embarrassment, or pale from the stress. It settles for splotchy.

Oh.

Oh—/no./

It would seem that Lang Qianqiu rolled the dice himself.

Stumbling into the tunnel, to find his Guoshi in Crimson Rain Sought Flower’s lap, flushed, his robes pulled aside so the Ghost King can kiss his bare shoulder, the two of them intertwined in…

What can only be taken for an embrace.

“I—I can explain!”

Xie Lian stammers, leaning back to look at him—but Hua Cheng’s arm is still firm around his waist, stopping him from retreating that far.

…Which doesn’t particularly help Xie Lian’s case.

“He was healing my arm!” The prince explains, lifting it up as evidence. “See?”

Lang Qianqiu glances as he’s indicated, finding that his Guoshi’s arm does, in fact, look good as new. Even the robes, which were bloodied and ripped before, have been completely repaired.

“…I don’t think that’s standard medical procedure,” the martial god mutters, glaring.

“Well…” Xie Lian clears his throat, pulling his robes back up over his shoulder—and Hua Cheng, ever so helpful, assists, even going so far as to adjust Xie Lian’s belt, which had been slightly loosened by the…chaos. “I don’t think it is either, but it was definitely faster!”

After all, it would probably have taken Xie Lian’s body a couple of days or so to heal on it’s own, or Mu Qing a couple of hours—and Hua Cheng was able to leave him as good as new in a matter of minutes.

“…Guoshi, I don’t think that man is a trained physician…”

“Well,” Xie Lian clears his throat, “I mean—no, he isn’t, but clearly he knows a thing or two, and…ghost medicinal techniques…could be different from ours, we…don’t know!”

Lang Qianqiu’s eyebrows knit together, struggling with that explanation.

“…Well, he’s healed now,” the martial god mutters, lifting his sword. “Let him go!”

Hua Cheng raises an eyebrow, his eye flashing in the dark.

Instead of replying to Lang Qianqiu’s request, his arm suddenly tightens, making Xie Lian fall against his chest with surprise.

“San Lang—?”

He stops when Hua Cheng presses a kiss against the side of his head, never breaking eye contact with General Tai Hua as he does so, his gaze narrowed.

That’s when Xie Lian remembers the cut on the side of his head, the one Hua Cheng noticed in Paradise Manor.

‘Who did this?’

The wound had already scabbed over—but now, it’s completely gone.

Finally, Hua Cheng leans back, and his grip on Xie Lian loosens. “Now he’s healed.” The Ghost King agrees. “Dianxia, would you like me to deal with this brat for you?”

“Deal with me?!”

Lang Qianqiu glares. “You’re the one in the middle of kidnapping him, and you get the nerve—? This has nothing to do with you!”

Hua Cheng’s lips start to pull back over his teeth with a hiss—but Xie Lian gently placed a hand over his shoulder.

“Don’t,” the god murmurs.

“He deserves the chance to speak with me, if that’s what he wants.”

After all, Lang Qianqiu isn’t a stranger, Xie Lian…he’s keenly aware as his place in the young God’s life. How much he mattered to him.

He rises to his feet, and Hua Cheng follows with a glare.

“You owe him nothing, your highness.”

“Actually,” Lang Qianqiu cuts him off with a heated glare, “he does. You clearly aren’t aware, but we were involved.”

Xie Lian grimaces, pressing his palm to forehead.

“Your highness…” he groans, “Don’t go assuming things on your own…”

“…Don’t talk to me like that,” Lang Qianqiu mutters, shaking his head.

Xie Lian glances up, startled. “I don’t—”

“You were so distant,” The prince of Yong’an shakes his head. “I was always honest with you, but you were lying the entire time. Treating me like a child.”

Xie Lian falls silent, biting the inside of his cheek. He can’t deny that he did treat Lang Qianqiu like he was younger than he was, but that was only because he wanted to…

“I deserved…” The martial god grits his teeth, his hands clenched into fists. “I deserved the truth.”

He did. But—

Sometimes, lies are better. Xie Lian learned that the hard way.

Glancing back and forth between the two of them, uncaring for Lang Qianqiu’s visible distress, Hua Cheng speaks up, his voice flat—

“You’re the only one who seems to think you were involved.”

Xie Lian winces, rubbing the side of his neck. “I mean…” He trails off, “Things were a little…muddled, towards the end…”

“Muddled?” Lang Qianqiu questions, raising an eyebrow sharply.

“Well—”

“Then let me ‘un-meddle’ it for you,” the younger prince shakes his head.

“I was in love with you.”

Xie Lian sighs heavily, rubbing his temples. He had been in denial back then. Had assumed it was a childish crush, one that would fade with time. That he would become a bad memory, and nothing more.

But three centuries later, it doesn’t sound that way.

“I proposed, and you disappeared without answering.” He continues, his hand trembling where it grips his sword.

“…So, you really were…” Xie Lian mumbles, grimacing. He tried to convince himself it was something a little less serious, but…

Hua Cheng doesn’t seem amused.

“And then, the next time I see you, you’re pulling a sword out of my father’s chest,” He turns to look at Hua Cheng, and the Ghost King will give him one thing—

Lang Qianqiu isn’t frightened, and he isn’t going to back down.

Guoshi Fangxin’s disciple is strong.

“So, yes,” he glares, “he does owe me an explanation. And if you want to stop me, you’re going to have to kill me.”

“That can be easily arranged,” Hua Cheng replies coldly, but—

Xie Lian’s palm presses against his chest, pushing him back.

“Don’t,” the prince repeats quietly.

“I don’t want him harmed.”

The ghost king’s teeth come together with a click, but he says little more—stepping back and crossing his arms over his chest.

“…Okay, Lang Qianqiu,” Xie Lian sighs. “I’m listening. I’ll probably be banished soon, if that’s what you want—”

“It isn’t,” the prince shakes his head. “And you know that.”

Xie Lian falls silent once more, and then—he hangs his head with a sigh, feeling somewhat hopeless.

“Then what do you need from me, your highness?”

“…I need to know whether or not I’m the villain in this story.”

There’s an ache, an underlying horror in his tone, one that makes his Guoshi’s eyes widen.

“…How could you be?” He whispers. “You didn’t do anything wrong—”

“When I put you in that coffin,” Lan Qianqiu spits out the words, looking vaguely nauseous, “I didn’t know you were…”

The mere mention of it makes Xie Lian grimace. “Of course, you didn’t—”

“…And I know you were in there for a long time,” Lang Qianqiu mutters, his voice hoarse, “because I visited. For years.”

“…” Xie Lian wraps his arms around himself.

He knows.

He heard.

He kept quiet. No matter how miserable and afraid he was, Xie Lian forced himself to remain silent.

Because if Lang Qianqiu knew what he had done, he would have hated himself.

And because Xie Lian deserved to be there,

He deserved to be alone.

But…

…Lang Qianqiu found out anyway.

He’s hurting anyway.

“And…” The prince of Yong’an takes a deep breath. “If you actually did those things, then I’m not sorry.” He says the words evenly.

Xie Lian isn’t surprised.

Yong’an was a country born from war and strife. Pei Xiu tried to claim differently in the Sinner’s Pit, but…

It was an empire. All great nations are baptized in blood.

Yong’an was a warrior culture, one with a very black and white, brutal sense of Justice.

Xianle was no different.

Xie Lian was no different, when he sought his own vengeance.

‘What do we do, when we are faced with the wicked?’

He isn’t better than Lang Qianqiu, he only enjoys the benefits of past failures and hindsight.

“But if you didn’t…” His student trembles.

He closes his eyes, breathing deeply, and Xie Lian can feel the pain radiating off of him in waves, making his own heart ache.

“…Then I will be making it up to you for the rest of my life,” the martial god mutters, and Xie Lian—

He places a hand over his mouth, silent.

Because—

In all honesty, the god forgot how good Lang Qianqiu could be. Honorable to a fault.

And he forgot the way that he felt about the boy, all those years ago.

“…You say that as though you’ve already decided I didn’t do it,” Xie Lian mutters. “But I’ve never denied it.”

“…” Lang Qianqiu shakes his head, taking a deep breath. “You get a little lost in your own head sometimes, Guoshi. Remember what you used to tell me?”

Xie Lian’s eyes widen. “…To pay closer attention,” he murmurs.

The prince of Yong’an shrugs.

“I paid attention to you.”

He takes a step closer. “I know that you thought of me as an oblivious, carefree kid—but when it came to you, I was serious.”

On some level, Xie Lian knew that.

“And I obviously didn’t know your secrets…” Lang Qianqiu mutters. “But that doesn’t mean I knew nothing about you.”

Xie Lian forgets that, sometimes.

That while there are parts of him that people can never reach, it doesn’t mean that he’s impossible to get to know.

“I know how much you think about things,” the prince stares into his face, taking it in.

“I know that it might take you a long time to make a decision, but when you do, it’s final.”

That’s just stubbornness, but it’s kind of Lang Qianqiu to make him sound so decisive.

“You avoid things that you don’t know how to deal with,” he points out.

Less generous, but still true.

“…And I know that you knew me, Guoshi,” Xie Lian’s heart twists once more. “You knew me inside out.”

Of course he did.

Understanding Lang Qianqiu was the easiest thing in the world. Like looking at his own life in reverse.

“…You knew how I felt,” the prince stops in front of him, only a foot or so from his Guoshi, “probably for a very long time.”

Hua Cheng watches Xie Lian closely, and the god doesn’t reply.

Because he hasn’t told a lie so far.

Xie Lian is a master of denial, and he isn’t always the most honest narrator of his own thoughts.

He knew, but he didn’t acknowledge it, because—

“And you know—I never would have forced my feelings on you,” Lang Qianqiu mutters hoarsely. “If they became a burden, I would have—”

“I know,” Xie Lian whispers, one hand still covering his mouth. Slowly, he lowers it. “I knew that.”

Lang Qianqiu nods woodenly. He figured as much.

“…And I also know you never would have led me on,” he looks his Guoshi in the eyes, taking in the sight of the shackle inside.

“Or allowed me to make a fool of myself.”

Xie Lian swallows hard.

Still, his student hadn’t been wrong.

“You just avoided the subject all together, which means…”

Xie Lian looks away, clutching the chain around his neck.

“…you hadn’t decided what your answer was.”

The prince of Xianle squeezes his eyes shut.

Because it’s true.

Back then, when he was so lonely, and so…

There was someone offering themselves so earnestly.

A kind, open hearted boy.

One who gave him flowers.

Xie Lian grips Hong’er a little tighter, his lips trembling.

“…Why are you doing this?” He mutters, feeling the irritation from Hua Cheng behind him, rolling off of the Ghost King in waves.

And Xie Lian understands, it must be rather awkward, being forced to witness a personal situation like this one.

“…Because I’m not seventeen anymore, Guoshi,” Lang Qianqiu sighs. “I know—even if you did feel something for me, you were mourning your husband. You were lonely.”

Behind him, Hua Cheng arches an eyebrow, and Xie Lian’s heart leaps into his throat.

“I…”

“I understand, you didn’t feel the way as I did.” The prince shakes his head. “I might be a fool, and I ought rush into things—but I’ve had three centuries,” he watches the conflict in Xie Lian’s expression. “And I’ve spent all of them thinking about you.”

Hua Cheng’s nostrils flare as he leans back, twisting his braid as he glares at the ceiling.

“…Or, there’s a scenario where none of that is true, and you’re the best actor I’ve ever met,” Lang Qianqiu mutters. “And you—you lost everything, and you wanted me to feel the same.”

“…And if that was true?” Xie Lian questions softly. “What would you do?”

“…” Lang Qianqiu reaches behind him, pulling something from his back, holding it out to him.

Xie Lian hesitates before finally reaching out to take it, hands trembling when they feel the hilt.

Fangxin.

Xie Lian stops, shaking his head when he realizes what Lang Qianqiu means. “No,” he mutters, taking a step back. “I won’t do that. I swore long ago—I wouldn’t kill with a sword again.”

Of course, Wen Jiao was an exception—but he was also a demon. Not a person.

“…If you aren’t willing to say that it wasn’t you,” Lang Qianqiu shakes his head, resolved. “Then you’re going to have to duel me.”

“No.” Xie Lian shakes his head. “I won’t.” His hand shoots out to stop Hua Cheng from approaching once again from behind. “And you won’t either!”

“I’m only accepting one of two outcomes,” his student locks his jaw stubbornly. “Either you fight me, or you tell me the truth. It’s your choice, but you have to make it.”

Hua Cheng actually growls with annoyance that anyone would dare dictate to Xie Lian, but…

There’s another matter at hand, and for that, he quietly reaches into a private communication array.

“…Lang Qianqi, if I fight you with a sword…” Xie Lian sighs, gripping Fangxin tighter. “You’ll definitely die.”

“And if you weren’t a liar, then you wouldn’t care!”

Xie Lian drops his chin, gritting his teeth.

“…There is no explanation I could give that would make you feel better,” he mutters, shaking his head. “So, you want to fight? Fine. We can fight.”

Before Lang Qianqiu says a word, he’s knocked to the ground, bound, unable to move.

“And there,” Xie Lian mutters, turning around, Fangxin gripped tightly in his hand. “You lost. You can tell everyone else that I fled like a coward.”

“That’s—!” Lang Qianqiu thrashes under Ruoye’s grip, “NOT WHAT I WANTED!”

“I know.”

“Typical—just AVOIDING the problem!”

Xie Lian grits his teeth, beginning to walk away. “If that’s what you want to think.”

“You aren’t PROTECTING me from anything!” The prince glares, struggling, trying to get to his feet. “I don’t have to TELL anyone that you fled like a coward! That’s WHAT YOU’RE DOING!”

His Guoshi doesn’t respond, reaching for Hua Cheng’s hand, pulling. “San Lang, let’s go.”

But when he tries to tug the Ghost King along, he remains in place—and Lang Qianqiu is still working with all his might to escape.

“THAT’S why you hid who you were for all that time!” His student cries. “Because the MINUTE anyone gets close, the minute anyone sees who you are, they CARE! So you just RUN AWAY!”

When Xie Lian speaks again, his voice is low, thin.

“Choosing to walk away isn’t the same.”

It isn’t running away if you don’t actually want to go.

Lang Qianqiu glares at his back, “You never TALKED to me, you just make decisions that impact me without EVER thinking about what I would want—!”

“YOU DON’T ALWAYS GET WHAT YOU WANT!”

The tunnel falls into shocked silence

Xie Lian’s shoulders tremble, and his head hurts, and he—

He isn’t alright.

“The beautiful, talented, illustrious crown prince,” he sneers, hands trembling by his sides. “They give you the entire world, and tell you that it’s yours. That you can do anything.”

He turns his head, his shackles like two twin flames in the darkness of the tunnel, flickering dimly.

“But the one thing you want the most—” he looks down on Lang Qianqiu, nails biting into his palms, “—that is the one thing you cannot have.”

He wishes tears would come.

“I could explain so many things to you,” the prince shakes his head. “But it wouldn’t make your family come back. Yong’an will still be gone. And you don’t know what else you might lose.”

“You—”

“I don’t let anyone close,” Xie Lian continues, “because I break things.”

Never on purpose. But he always does.

“I don’t let anyone close, because they never actually see me.” He gestures vaguely with fangxin, remembering the things the blade has done.

The things Xie Lian used it to do.

“They see a beautiful, talented, intelligent prince.”

He shakes his head, a broken laugh slipping from his lips. “And he doesn’t exist.”

“…Don’t say that,” Lang Qianqiu mumbles, trying desperately to hold onto the last glimmer of childhood. The hope he had, when he saw Xie Lian might not be the monster that he pretended to be.

“And I would rather be the laughingstock of the three realms,” Xie Lian glares. “Or the Blackhearted Guoshi Fangxin. Or—”

A White Clothed Calamity.

He clenches his teeth even tighter, “Or anyone else, anyone but the Crown Prince of Xianle.”

That very prince hangs his head.

“Because he destroyed everything I loved,” he mutters, his voice breaking.

Still, tears won’t come.

“…Take that last lesson from your Guoshi,” he mutters. “Never put people on pedestals. You both end up broken and disappointed in the end.”

He tries to keep walking, but…

Hua Cheng’s hand locks around his, holding him in place.

“…Let me go, San Lang.” He mutters, his shoulders sagging.

The Ghost King is quiet for a moment, surveying the two.

“…No.”

Xie Lian looks back, raising an eyebrow, and he—

/Crack!/

There’s a snap of Hua Cheng’s fingers, and he doesn’t hear Lang Qianqiu struggling anymore.

Ruoye quickly returns to him, wrapping around his throat with a nervous wiggle.

“…Wh—?”

Something small and wooden is pressed into his hands, a—

A Daruma Doll.

“…What is this?”

“He was upsetting you,” Hua Cheng replies calmly. “Now he’s a fun Knick knack. Show him off at parties if you like.”

“San Lang…” Xie Lian frowns, and now, instead of holding him still, Hua Cheng is pulling him down the tunnel. “Turn him back.”

“No.”

The Ghost King has hardly ever denied him anything, and now, he’s told Xie Lian no twice in a row.

For some reason, he isn’t as bothered by it as he thought he might be.

“…Why not?”

“Because gege said I couldn’t harm him,” Hua Cheng replies calmly. “So, he needs to be quiet.”

“…He wasn’t doing anything wrong,” Xie Lian mutters, using Ruoye to make a makeshift scabbard for Fangxin, strapping the sword to his back.

“…I actually agree,” Hua Cheng sighs, even if it sounds like he would rather eat glass than admit it. “But my patience is finite.”

Funny, because up until now, he’s been so tolerant, Xie Lian was actually starting to wonder if the man had any limits at all, but…

Clearly, he does.

“San Lang, where are we going?” Xie Lian questions cautiously, tucking the Daruma doll into his sleeve.

“There’s someone the two of you need to speak to.” Hua Cheng’s grip slides up from Xie Lian’s hand to his elbow, leading him down the tunnel. “I suspect it might be an educational experience.”

Xie Lian blinks owlishly.

…What?

“…Are they in Ghost City?”

“No.”

Hua Cheng’s footsteps are light, but sure—leading him just as he did on Mount Yu Jun, with a sureness to him that Xie Lian can’t help but…

Trust, to some extent.

“Then where?”

“Our guide is about to show us the way,” he murmurs.

Xie Lian is confused, until…

Something rounds the corner of the corner. Small, low to the ground, trotting towards him.

And unlike most spirits or animals—Xie Lian can see this one very clearly.

“…Is it yours?” He whispers, tilting his head to the side with wonder.

“No,” Hua Cheng shakes his head.

His butterflies are made from pure spiritual energy, stemming from his own reserves.

This isn’t quite the same.

“He’s a guardian spirit.”

Ah, Xie Lian has heard of those before, but…not usually described that way, and…

A red panda blinks up at him from his feet, chirping.

…They’re never described as ‘cute,’ either.

But this little creature is certainly adorable, pressing it’s paws against Xie Lian’s boot as it sniffs his robes, tails held aloft.

“Aye, Aye…” Hua Cheng clicks his tongue, scolding. “Back to work.”

It lifts it’s head, sending Hua Cheng a glare and an offended squeak—and that’s when Xie Lian notices—

It’s wearing a little hat. Green, with a red tassel on top.

Then, it turns it’s back to them, scurrying back down the tunnel, and Hua Cheng guides the prince to follow.

“…A guardian spirit,” Xie Lian repeats slowly, watching it’s tail flick in the air as it trots ahead. “I was always told that animal spirits were the result of Taoist magic.”

Hua Cheng shakes his head. “Sometimes—but they form naturally in mountains and forests.”

Xie Lian falls silent, watching the creature move about.

For him to be able to see it, it must be an actual spiritual creature, not the ghost of something that was once living.

There’s something that he’s been thinking about, during his time with the Ghost King.

There are so many things he’s seen with Hua Cheng—in the Crescent Moon Kingdom, and then Ghost City—things that are traditionally considered evil, but…

Xie Lian is starting to wonder if ‘evil’ might just be a term for something that the Heavens don’t control.

“…And he doesn’t work for you?” Xie Lian questions slowly.

“His name is Qi Qi,” Hua Cheng hums, “and I suppose he does in an indirect way, but he would never obey a direct request from me. He’s someone else’s subordinate.”

“…And that person is the one who sent him?”

“Yes.”

Xie Lian examines the creature just a little more closely. It’s aura isn’t particularly large—but it’s strong. Probably placing it on the level that most cultivators (within the mortal realm) would struggle to deal with.

Whoever sent it must be an impressive ghost.

The tunnel seems to shift and stretch around them as they move through it—and Xie Lian would be lying if he said he wasn’t interested in how the passage worked, but…well…

He’s already pushed his luck when it comes to Hua Cheng’s traveling arrays, and it seems better to wait.

Eventually they reach the end of the tunnel—and it turns out, it’s far more functional with Hua Cheng at the helm, because they don’t end up dumped out through a trap door.

Instead, Hua Cheng leads them through a doorway, and when they step through…

It’s a forest.

He can smell as much, and hear the wind creaking through the leaves. And from the lack of warmth against his skin—it must be nighttime, with no sunlight coming down.

Ahead of them, Qi Qi chirps excitedly, charging forward until he reaches his master, jumping into his arms.

“Well done,” a voice murmurs—familiar to Xie Lian by now, though slightly different from before. Slightly deeper, older—like a young man between seventeen and twenty years old.

And the aura before him is familiar as well.

Emerald, like the forest itself—but with a burning core.

But when he steps forward, there’s a difference in his gate. Each step lands on the ground with a bit more weight than it did before, when Xie Lian heard the youth approaching in the streets of Ghost City, or running down the halls of Paradise Manor.

And now, he remembers.

Back in the Heavenly Capital, when they were explaining to him the tales of the four great calamities, the god he now knows as Ming Yi explained their names and titles—

The Night Touring Green Lantern, also known as the Green Ghost, Qi Rong. Known for his vile tastes.

Also the weakest of the four, having never ascended as a Calamity—and simply included to pad out their numbers, making them an even four like the great tales.

Then, there was Black Water Sinking Ships, a reclusive Water Demon—one who Hua Cheng seems somewhat amicable towards.

…And the most powerful, though he’s been long since dead, the White Clothed Calamity, Bai Wuxiang.

Which left the last, the most powerful living—the man standing beside him right now.

Crimson Rain Sought Flower, the Lord of Ghost City—Hua Cheng.

But there was another.

A powerful savage ghost, a subordinate of Hua Cheng’s—but strong enough to be able to replace Qi Rong as one of the Four Calamities, given time.

Autumn Twilight Shrouding Forests, the demon…

“…You must be Ren Song,” Xie Lian murmurs, bowing his head politely.

The savage ghost smirks, revealing a fanged grin as he bends into a sweeping bow, one that’s more for Hua Cheng’s benefit, since Xie Lian can’t see the gesture. “The pleasure is all mine, your highness.”

Earrings jingle softly at his ears as he moves, clinking in the night.

“The lair is two hundred yards ahead, built into a pre-existing cave system,” he explains, walking ahead of the ghost king and his god, Qi Qi perched on his shoulder, tail flicking slightly with each step. “There are between two and three dozen human prisoners.”

Xie Lian stiffens at the mention of prisoners, glancing at Hua Cheng with concern, but the Ghost king doesn’t seem to share it.

“Does he know that you’ve tracked him here?”

“No,” Ren Song replies quietly. “I was concerned he might flee if I revealed myself before you arrived.”

Xie Lian frowns, trying to piece together who they’re seeing, and why Hua Cheng thought it would be ‘educational’ for Xie Lian, as well as Lang Qianqiu…

“But I’ve identified all of the exits, so he shouldn’t be able to escape once you’re inside.”

Unforeseen factors notwithstanding.

(And in this case, there was one factor that the forest demon had not been warned about, and therefore could not have prepared for.)

“…San Lang,” Xie Lian questions as they approach the cave entrance. “Who did you bring me to see?”

The Daruma Doll rattles slightly in his sleeve, almost like it’s agreeing with him, and…

Hua Cheng simply slips an arm around Xie Lian’s waist, pulling him close against his side.

The prince glances up at him in confusion, and he explains—

“Invisibility spell.”

Now, the rattling of the Daruma doll seems slightly more aggressive, but Hua Cheng doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, he seems pleased by it.

As he leads Xie Lian over the threshold, the god catches sight of the first clue to their location.

Tiny little green spirits running up and down the cave system. Not quite ghost fires, but not strong enough to be fully fledged ghosts either. Milling about like ants, talking quietly among themselves.

Finally, Hua Cheng murmurs—

“We’re here to see that waste of space—Qi Rong.”

Xie Lian stiffens slightly at the mention of him.

The Night Touring Green Lantern, wasn’t it?

“…The green spirits,” Xie Lian whispers, walking beside him silently, “is that how he got the name?”

“In part, but that’s not how it started,” Hua Cheng replies.

There’s something different about him.

Xie Lian notices it now—even more so than he did before, in the tunnel.

Turning Lang Qianqiu into a Daruma doll and refusing Xie Lian’s request to turn him back—that was already unusually aggressive, but…

There’s tension under his tone.

“He’s been reduced back to a ghost fire several times, though never dispersed. He finds the history somewhat humiliating, so he takes on the green spirits and flames to distract from the truth.” The calamity explains, helping Xie Lian step up and over a ledge.

“…I see.”

Xie Lian allows himself to be led along, but eventually, he has to ask…

“San Lang?”

He receives a quiet hum of acknowledgement, and he fights back the urge to clear his throat, remembering that they have to be quiet for now.

“…Is something bothering you?”

For a moment, he doesn’t answer. He stands alone, his back facing away from the crown prince, even as he grips his hand to guide him, and the question he asks—

“How long was it?”

It wasn’t the one Xie Lian was expecting.

“…I’m sorry?” He mumbles, tilting his head. “I don’t—”

“Dianxia,” there’s something in his tone that gives Xie Lian pause, his heart leaping into his throat. “I will never force you to speak about it, but I need you to tell me how long it was.”

“…” Pretending he doesn’t know what San Lang is talking about would be childish.

And maybe…

Lang Qianqiu had a point, when he said Xie Lian had a tendency to avoid things.

The prince falls silent for a moment. It’s not that he wants to protect anyone else from that knowledge, not exactly. He knows the truth is horrific.

On some distant level. One that feels far removed from him.

The reason he doesn’t like to speak about it is because…

If he had told Feng Xin or Mu Qing, it would have been about their guilt. Their worry. Xie Lian doesn’t have the time, nor the energy to shoulder that burden.

All of his energy goes into pretending those years don’t belong to him. That they happened to someone else. Keeping them on the other side of this thick barrier in his mind, and cramming them into a small box.

Xie Lian doesn’t want to talk about how he felt.

Doesn’t want Lang Qianqiu to apologize, or try to make it up to him. He doesn’t want to think about how many years Feng Xin spent looking, or how guilty Mu Qing must feel for refusing.

Finally, he whispers—

“Does it matter?”

Fingertips brush over his brow, cool to the touch.

“Yes.” Hua Cheng replies quietly. “It matters.”

“…” Xie Lian leans up on the balls of his feet, whispering in the Ghost King’s ear for a moment.

The Ghost King’s eyes widen substantially, and Xie Lian waits apprehensively. Waiting for the questions.

The pity.

But Hua Cheng doesn’t say a word.

Instead, Xie Lian feels him lean down, and…

His forehead presses against the crown prince’s, skin soothingly cool when Xie Lian’s body temperature flares in response to the closeness.

“S…San L—?”

“There,” the Ghost King pulls back.

Xie Lian hears that his voice sounds slightly different now, younger—and when he reaches up to touch his own face, he realizes…

Hua Cheng placed them both in new skins, likely because the invisibility spell won’t keep the deeper they go into Qi Rong’s lair.

Xie Lian reaches up to touch his own cheek, curious, and a playful voice echoes by his ear, teasing—

“Don’t worry, gege looks as charming as ever.”

The prince’s lips quirk up into a smile, and he almost scolds San Lang for taking this moment to tease him, but…

There’s no mirth to it. If anything, he seems…

Distracted.

Xie Lian wants to ask him what’s the matter, but then, he supposes…

A century in a coffin is a lot to digest, even if they haven’t known each other for very long…

He might not know what to say. Xie Lian doesn’t.

But the further they move into the cave, that silence begins to break.

Pierced with laughing, jaunting singing, the faint sounds of bones clacking together.

Xie Lian’s grip on Hua Cheng’s hand tightens imperceptibly—and the Ghost King’s mouth sets into a grim line.

Because that laughter—it’s pulling at the edge of his memory.

Drawing Xie Lian back in time, so far back, towards things he’s tried so hard to forget—making him strain.

And he tries, now, tries so hard to tell himself that it’s a coincidence.

Denial is better than the truth.

But now, as they approach the final chamber—Xie Lian hears a voice he was so sure he would never encounter again.

Sneering, rasping—like a voice that might have been high pitched or childish, but has been roughened with centuries of screaming—

“Report?”

One of the green ghosts pipes up, “We’ve been desecrating Ming Guang’s temples, and it’s just like you said, my lord! No one in the Heavens has even noticed!”

There’s a shrieking giggle as another spirit pipes up—

“We even blamed it on Quan Yizhen’s followers!”

Targeting Pei Ming again?

Between the actions of Xuan Ji, the events in Gusu—even Pei Xiu’s banishment following the incident in the Crescent Moon Pass…

Xie Lian can’t help but pity the general.

The tunnel system of the caves opens to a wide cavern.

Filled from wall to wall with little green spirits, huddling mortal prisoners into small cages. Bones piled high all around—

Most of them from humans.

In the center of the room is a cauldron, large enough to be mistaken for a bath, if not for the water’s boiling temperature.

And sitting in the very center of it, with his feet kicked up luxuriously, is a green robed figure, fanning himself lazily with a slightly ripped paper fan, bouncing his toes in time with the sound his little ghouls squeal out in the background.

Hua Cheng wasn’t wrong, before.

The Night Touring Green Lantern…

“Say…” he groans, kicking at his footrest, “I’m HUNGRY!”

…is truly vile.

In the corner, he can hear a human man, likely in his twenties, rocking back and forth on the floor, quietly trying to reassure his child.

“Don’t be scared…”

It doesn’t take much time or intelligence to deduce what the prisoners are for.

“Don’t be scared, we—we’ll be alright…”

Qi Rong makes a face, eyes snapping in the direction of the father and his little boy.

For a moment, his expression is unreadable as he uses a human rib bone to pick his teeth, gaze narrowed.

“…say…” he glares, arching one eyebrow. “I think I’ll start with an appetizer.”

The ghouls at his feet shriek with acknowledgement, and the natural candidate?

The boy.

He’s the only one small enough among the prisoners to be considered an appetizer, anyway—

But before the ghouls can reach him, whimpering and trembling as he hides in his father’s arms, Hua Cheng steps forward, walking lazily through the crowd—kicking ghouls aside as he goes.

“…” The green ghost’s gaze flickers to the source of movement, and his eyes narrow sharply. “Who the fuck are you?!” He snaps, crunching the rib bone between his jaws. “Who told you that you could approach?!”

Hua Cheng smiles, hands clasped behind his back.

“Is the green ghost so ignorant, he doesn’t realize when he has an esteemed guest?”

The ghost king’s tone is perfectly pleasant—almost cheerful—but Xie Lian knows better by now.

There’s ice underneath.

“…Esteemed guest?” Qi Rong sneers.

“Royalty of Xianle, to be specific.”

That manages to draw out a laugh.

A snide, cackling sound.

“Royalty from Xianle?” He snorts, “You think that’s fucking funny, do you?”

Xie Lian remains still, not saying a word.

“Tell me—how are you related to the Royal House of Xie?”

Hua Cheng’s smile turns sky.

“…Through Prince An Le.”

Xie Lian can’t keep the grimace off of his face.

Just thinking about that name makes his chest tighten with anger—and inside his sleeve, Xie Lian can feel Lang Qianqiu rattle with recognition.

“An Le?!” Qi Rong barks, looking him over.

“You? You look nothing like the guy! Besides, he died without having any children. He was the last of the Royal bloodline! You have a lot of nerve, lying to this ancestor in his territory!”

Xie Lian bites back the urge to roll his eyes.

San Lang said something along those lines himself, before—but from his lips, the words sounded genuinely menacing.

From Qi Rong, it sounds like a joke. A weak attempt at seeming more frightening than he is.

“How did he die, then?” Hua Cheng muses, tilting his head.

Xie Lian has always been a skilled fighter. That, in part, is why he can detect the minute changes in Hua Cheng’s stance, just from sensing the slight movement in the air.

Like a beast cooking before it pounces.

But even more so, that tension is still building.

That same feeling he’s had since they arrived in this cave, finally reaching the point where it seems ready to snap.

“The fuck? What makes you think you have the right to ask questions? Someone—get rid of the this piece of shit!”

His little green ghosts leap to attention, but…

Before any of them can make a move, Hua Cheng has disappeared.

Now, he stands directly behind the green ghost, fingers knotted in his hair, yanking his chin back.

“That’s an interesting skin you’re wearing,” the calamity hisses. “Take it off.”

Xie Lian blinks, listening close.

Skin? What sort of skin could the ghost be wearing that would offend Hua Cheng so much?

“Who the fuck do you think you are, putting your hands on me?!” Qi Rong glares, trying to reach back and free himself. “I’ll wear whatever I—!”

/BANG!/

Xie Lian jumps at the sound, startled as he listens to the floor crack, pebbles flying in every direction.

Hua Cheng has slammed the Ghost’s head into the floor so violently, it’s completely disappeared into the rock, forming a small crater with his neck and body sticking out.

It’s not like Xie Lian has never seen the ghost king resort to violence before—he did that easily enough in the Sinner’s Pit. Threatened to do so with Lang Qianqiu.

But those instances were highly controlled. Purposeful, even.

/BANG!/

/BANG!/

/BANG!/

“…San Lang?”

…There is nothing about this that resembles control.

Hua Cheng yanks him up by the hair, smashing his head down, over and over again, until the ghost is choking up blood.

“SOMEONE—SOMEONE STOP HIM?! WHY ARE YOU IDIOTS JUST STANDING AROUND?!”

Hua Cheng yanks his head back up, holding Qi Rong’s neck in a forced arch, tendons straining, glaring down into that face.

A face he adores, twisted into a demented parody of the original. Twisted with hate, eyes burning an acidic shade of green.

“Who is going to stop me?”

Hua Cheng’s voice is calm—arrogant. But his expression tells a different story. Lips pulled back into a snarl, eye burning brightly with rage.

“Who on earth can stop me from doing whatever I like with you, Qi Rong?” His hand twists more viciously into the green ghost’s hair.

He’s shifted back into his true form now—one that the Night Touring Green Lantern is unfamiliar with, but…

That gaze, and the red robes—they’re clues enough.

“You?!” Qi Rong coughs, blood dripping down his chin. “Why are you here?! Finally going to make a meal of me?!”

That earns him a condescending laugh. “A meal of you?” The ghost king questions coldly. “You aren’t even worth eating.”

Qi Rong struggled more violently, only for Crimson Rain to bare his fangs before his throat with a hiss of warning.

“I wouldn’t even give you to the rats…”

Hua Cheng snarls. “They got indigestion, last time.”

Implying that he has, in fact, fed Qi Rong to a pack of rodents before.

Xie Lian can’t say he disapproves, but still…

“Now, where were we?”

/BAM!/

“Take.”

/BAM!/

“That.”

/BAM!/

“Skin.”

/BAM!/

“Off.”

“…San Lang,”

All of the little green spirits that were milling about the room before have retreated to the far corners, practically jointing their human hostages in their cages, reeking with terror, but…

Xie Lian isn’t afraid.

Instead, he rushes to the ghost king’s side.

The moment Hua Cheng feels the god’s hand against his back, he goes quite still, Qi Rong’s limp and bleeding form dangling from his fingertips.

Xie Lian doesn’t glance his way. Doesn’t even want to know what the hideous, resentful energy inside that soul must look like.

“…Are you alright?“ Xie Lian murmurs, his lips tipping into a slight frown.

He doesn’t understand why they’re here, or what this has to do with Qi Rong.

He has no idea how he feels now, learning the Green Ghost’s true identity.

And he has no clue what upset San Lang so badly.

When the ghost king doesn’t reply, Xie Lian’s hands come to rest on his shoulders, rubbing gently.

He’s never exactly had to deal with someone foul tempered before. Lang Qianqiu was an obedient student. Banyue a sweet tempered girl.

The closest comparison he can think of is Hong’er—who was never once cross with Xie Lian. He would have swallowed hot coals before speaking harshly to him.

But he would fly into a rage when the god was insulted, and Xie Lian often had to talk him down from it.

“Don’t be angry…” He murmurs, shaking his head, stroking the ghost king’s shoulder with one hand while the other rubs up and down his back. “Everything’s alright…just calm down, please? For me?”

Given how quick Hua Cheng has been to refuse him today, he isn’t optimistic, but…

Slowly, he feels the calamity relax under his touch, and while Xie Lian can’t see—he knows his expression is far more calm now than it was only moments before.

“…Apologies,” he mutters, hanging his head. “Did I frighten dianxia?”

“No, no…”

“Have I offended him?”

“No,” Xie Lian reassures him again, his hands still rubbing over the ghost king’s shoulders. “I was only worried…”

Xie Lian can respect decisions made out of anger. There is such a thing as wrathful justice, and he is very familiar.

But he also knows what it’s like to make a decision out of pain and impulse, only to regret it later.

Hua Cheng’s mouth tilts up at the corners. “…His highness doesn’t need to waste his energy worrying about me,” the ghost king mutters, “I’m alright.”

Xie Lian frowns.

Normally, Hua Cheng’s attitude is cocky, bordering on outright arrogance. But this…

This is the first time that Xie Lian has heard him be outright self deprecating.

“It’s not a waste,” he replies, squeezing the ghost’s shoulders gently.

“…” Hua Cheng smiles faintly, reaching up to place his hand over the prince’s, squeezing for just a moment, and…

To Xie Lian’s shock, he can’t move—or speak, for that matter.

The spell is relatively simple, and without spiritual powers, he doesn’t have the means to fight it.

He doesn’t panic. If Hua Cheng wanted to do him harm, he’s had many chances to do that already, but…

Xie Lian is wary now, staring blankly in Qi Rong’s direction, and…

Hua Cheng repeats his question, “How did Prince An Le die?”

…He’s starting to guess at why they’re here.

He struggles, mouth straining, wanting to talk over the two, to tell them the conversation is pointless, but…it’s no use.

“Why the fuck do you care about that?!” Qi Rong grumbles, spitting out blood once again. A tooth comes out with it, clacking against the stone floor.

Hua Cheng smacks his head down on the floor once more—

/BAM!/

And he repeats the same question, calmer now, but there isn’t an ounce of mercy in that tone—

“How did Prince An Le die?”

“What makes you assume I know?!”

/BAM!/

“You know something?” Hua Cheng muses.

And the threat he opts for next—it surprises him.

“Your friend is waiting outside.”

Hua Cheng is objectively far more powerful, and yet…Qi Rong pales at the mention of the forest demon Ren Song.

“Should I call him in to play with you?”

Physical violence only works on Qi Rong to a certain extent. Xie Lian knows that much. He was incredibly tough skinned, even in his mortal life. He only broke under Xie Lian’s hands because the torture was, well…extreme.

Xie Lian expects his tolerance is even higher as a ghost.

His instinct is to assume that Ren Song couldn’t do worse than Hua Cheng, but…

Then, he remembers what Ming Yi said.

That Ren Song’s magic was known for causing madness.

It’s hard to know what impact that would have on Qi Rong, who is already insane—

Now, he seems afraid.

“…Lang Qianqiu,” the green ghost mutters, feet thrashing as he tries to get his hair out of Hua Cheng’s grip.

The Daruma doll rattles inside Xie Lian’s sleeve, and the prince winces.

“IT WAS LANG QIANQIU, ALRIGHT?! LET ME GO!” Qi Rong howls. “THAT’S ALL THIS ANCESTOR KNOWS!”

Now, the doll shakes so violently that it falls out of Xie Lian’s pocket, rolling across the floor, wobbling back and forth with protest.

Instead of seeming irritated, Hua Cheng seems to decide that it’s time for his god’s little ‘Knick knack’ to speak.

With a snap of his fingers, Lang Qianqiu appears once again in a cloud of smoke, coughing for a moment as he rises to his feet, his expression twisted with anger.

“Me?! Prince An Le was my best friend!” He snaps, shaking his head vehemently. “It’s known—he died from an illness!”

“An illness? An Le?” Qi Rong snickers, hanging from Hua Cheng’s grip from the hair—and now, Lang Qianqiu can see what the calamity meant, ordering him to ‘take that skin off.’

The face before him…

Is identical to that of his Guoshi. Other than the eyes, gleaming bright green.

“That boy was as strong as an ox, and you mean to say he just died out of the blue? What illness does that?” Qi Rong looks him over, “I would have expected the blackhearted Guoshi Fangxin to have a student that wasn’t so…”

“Me too,” Hua Cheng sighs.

“You—?!”

“But Qi Rong…” The ghost king raises an eyebrow, using his grip on the green ghost’s hair to pull him up just a little higher. “Did I hear you admit to knowing Prince An Le personally?”

Qi Rong’s face scrunches up with irritation. “And so what?! Is that a crime?!”

Lan Qianqiu seems to find the idea preposterous. “And what would an honorable prince like An Le have to do with the likes of you?!”

“…” Qi Rong stares at him, then a wide grin spreads across his face.

Unlike the true owner, his teeth are razor sharp.

“And why do you think he was friends with you, huh?!” The green ghost snickers. “God, you really are a dumbass!”

Lang Qianqiu’s brow furrows, and Xie Lian’s stomach twists.

Don’t, he thinks—there’s no point to this.

But Qi Rong doesn’t stop.

“HAHA, An Le couldn’t STAND you!

His grin is wild, more and more satisfied as he watches the distress in the Prince of Yong’an’s eyes. “You think people were grateful, when your dumbass parents gave them shitty land and shitty titles?!”

“My…” Lang Qianqiu’s hands ball up, trembling.

“My parents were HONORABLE! They ended centuries of discrimination against the people of Xianle! Gave them land and titles—An Le had no reason to resent me!”

The things Lang Qianqiu is saying are true, but…

Qi Rong cackles even harder.

“You think that makes a difference?!”

Xie Lian grits his teeth, listening as the ghost jeers.

“Stolen land! Stolen titles! You give back the ancestral wealth your people stole, and you call it generosity?! BAH!” He grins, “Stupid PIGS! You all DESERVED to die! And then you killed An Le in revenge!”

Hua Cheng raises an eyebrow, lifting Qi Rong a little more violently, forcing his chin back so he can make eye contact with the ghost king once more. “What makes you so sure it wasn’t disease, hmm?”

The green ghost glares up at him defiantly, then lets out a huff.

It’s hard for Lang Qianqiu to look at that face, one that he now connects with…the most complicated relationship of his life, twisted into such a hideous expression.

“Because it was clearly retaliation for what happened at the Gilded Banquet.”

Xie Lian can see it starting to dawn there.

That slow, horrible realization of the truth.

Xie Lian has felt that pain before, albeit on a smaller scale.

Thinking someone was his friend, never realizing how far apart they stood. How little he understood them.

But Xie Lian was lucky.

“You mean…” The prince of Yong’an swallows hard, his eyes widening. “…You and Prince An Le were the ones who…?”

“Well, I helped move things along a little bit,” Qi Rong shrugs. “He did all the leg work.”

Then, he makes Xie Lian’s teeth clench.

“We would have been able to finish the job, if it wasn’t for that damn Guoshi…”

And finally, there it is.

“…We?” Lang Qianqiu questions softly.

If Xie Lian could, he would be hanging his head.

“Us of Xianle,” Qi Rong grins, relishing in his distress.

“We decided to show your piece of shit father our fucking gratitude, condescending ass…we would have killed you too, wiping out the entire bloodline, imagine!” His cackles echo off the walls with satisfaction, “But Guoshi Fangxin…he saved your life again. Fucking BASTARD!”

He groans, like, if Hua Cheng would let him go long enough, he’d be bashing his head into the ground himself with frustration.

“…Again?”

Xie Lian silently curses the fact that he and Hua Cheng don’t have a communication array set up. He has no way of asking for release.

“You really think a random group of bandits managed to kill that many imperial guards?!” Qi Rong groans, feet flailing in the air once more. “God fucking damn it, I’m tired of you good for nothing shit for brains!”

And of course, he’s remembering now. Xie Lian knows he is.

The day they met.

How many of his guards died. How young he was. How frightened.

That every single one of those men died for him. The weight he had to carry.

Xie Lian knows that feeling.

(It hurts.)

“…That was An Le?” Lang Qianqiu whispers, his voice suddenly small.

This, in the end, is where their stories diverge.

Xie Lian had a friend that he didn’t understand. One who was different from him. And even thought they both tried, they never quite saw one another clearly.

But underneath it all…

There wasn’t hatred between them.

There never was.

But there’s an inherent disconnect, when you are born without peers. When you’re too naive to realize that wealth and privilege place you so far away from everyone else.

And when you realize what people really thought of you…

It hurts.

Not only that—it’s so viciously lonely.

Xie Lian was a happy child. He didn’t know how else to be.

But there was a quietness, one that he was always seeking to fill. A lonesome kind of silence.

Lang Qianqiu was the same. But he got to keep the illusion of omnipotence.

Xie Lian felt so safe, when he thought he could do anything.

He was never afraid, when he thought that he was strong.

But when you realize just how much you didn’t see, just how much you didn’t know, the world becomes frightening.

And then you start questioning yourself.

Looking back at the things you said and did when you thought you knew everything.

“…Oh, I get it,” Qi Rong grins, eyes gleaming. “You buried that Guoshi of yours, right? Put a stake through his heart and everything—YEOWWW!”

He squeals with annoyance when Hua Cheng’s fingers tighten viciously in his hair, yanking him a couple of inches higher from the floor.

(Xie Lian never told him about the stake.)

But now, finally—he feels his mouth fall free.

Qi Rong has already said what he needed to.

And the first word out of his mouth actually startles Lang Qianqiu. Hua Cheng as well, but marginally less. His eye only widens slightly when Xie Lian mutters—

“Bullshit.”

“…Excuse you?” Qi Rong glares, slowly revolving from where he’s dangling by his hair in Hua Cheng’s grip.

“You come into a man’s house—while HE’S EATING DINNER, mind you—and YOU CALL HIM A LIAR?” Qi Rong crosses his arms. “GET THE FUCK OUT!”

Xie Lian ignores him completely, staring blindly in Lang Qianqiu’s direction.

“Your father—you saw me,” he reminds the prince, pleading.

“I killed him. An Le—it’s as you said, he had no reason to harm you. This creature—he’s insane, and a liar. You shouldn’t trust a word he says—”

“Wait a minute, so you’re the Guoshi Fangxin?” Qi Rong muses, glancing over the skin Hua Cheng has him in.

“You’re way more boring looking than I thought you’d be. Rumors said you were a looker. Ah, well. Probably just bullshit anyways! The king was already wounded, reports show that much. Why so eager to take the blame, old man?” He snickers. “Irritated you didn’t get there first?”

“I—” Xie Lian’s hands are trembling, where he clenches them at his sides. “I didn’t—it was—”

“Guoshi,” Lang Qianqiu croaks, his voice trembling—and Xie Lian hangs his head in response. “Stop.”

But what’s left if he does?

He’s starting to understand what Pei meant, before.

‘I think you take pride in your ability to endure suffering.’

Xie Lian’s lips quiver, and his throat tightens.

‘That’s the only way someone can endure a lifetime of being punished.’

Lang Qianqiu found out anyway. He’s hurting, anyway.

And if that’s true, then…

It might not seem like much, when stacked next to so many lifetimes of failure, but…

Xie Lian spent more time alone, in that coffin, than he did for any stretch among humans in his eight hundred years. With only the dreams of the ones he lost to keep him company.

By the end, he thought he would simply lay there until he faded. For however many centuries it took.

Every day, Xie Lian still wakes up in the dark. Sometimes, he’ll throw his hands up and stretch as far as he can—just to make sure he won’t find the coffin lid above him.

If it all came to this, to Lang Qianqiu learning the truth from Qi Rong’s lips—it’s more than just another failure.

It means that Xie Lian endured that without purpose.

Or, more accurately—

Xie Lian endured all of that because of Qi Rong.

“…Pathetic.”

His voice is low, cold—and at first, the green ghost doesn’t seem to recognize that it’s directed at him, still snorting and giggling in Lang Qianqiu’s direction, but…

Once he does realize, he frowns.

“After all that, you’re calling ME pathetic?! HA! What a fucking JOKE!”

“No,” Xie Lian replies flatly, slowly lifting his head. He speaks evenly. Doesn’t have the uncontrolled wrath that he did when he was young.

“You’re the one everyone is laughing at.”

That makes the ghost stop his howling and cawing, his eyes narrowing as he stares him down.

“You’ve always been the butt of the joke, Qi Rong. Even when you’re the one trying to tell it.”

Now that he doesn’t seem particularly bothered with hiding his identity, Hua Cheng allows the disguise to fall away.

Finally, green eyes widen sharply with recognition.

“…Cousin?”

Qi Rong blinks, staring at him in shock, then smirking when he sees the shackle in his eyes. “Hah, I heard you ascended again. Stupid fucking heavenly officials, not seeing what a sick bastard you are! You were Guoshi Fangxin? All this time? HA! HA! THAT’S FUCKING PRICELESS!”

Hua Cheng’s gaze darkens as the ghoul prattles on, practically wiggling in his grip from deranged excitement. “I guess that Heavenly Emperor of yours left you shackled this time? How’d you even get another chance?! Probably had to get down on your knees and suck his—!”

/BAM!/

This time, he’s slammed into the floor so violently, his head actually gets stuck. Hua Cheng lets him go, watching as Qi Rong writhes and pushes at the ground with his hand, struggling to push himself free.

When he does, he’s wearing his own face, rather than Xie Lian’s.

But before he can sit up, there’s a boot on top of his head, pushing it back down into the crumbled rock, grinding it down until his face starts to crack and bleed against the shards—

“San Lang,” Xie Lian calls out, his tone even. “Stop.”

Hua Cheng is silent, his gaze wild.

Still, he obeys, lifting his boot from the ghost’s head, trembling with anger as he takes a step back.

Lang Qianqiu is shaking as well—but not from rage.

Rage will come for him later.

Now, he only has guilt and regret.

Xie Lian closes his eyes with a sigh.

All these years later, and he’s still dealing with Qi Rong’s messes.

“Going through all of that trouble…” Xie Lian sighs, taking a step towards him. “All to avenge a clan that you aren’t even a part of.”

Qi Rong pushes himself up onto his hands and knees, glaring. “I—!”

“My parents took you in out of obligation,” the elder of the two murmurs, watching his aura now with faint distaste.

It’s twisted and warped, sparks flying off the edges, the inner layers twisting like thorns.

Green, like an infected wound, flesh that needs to be cut free.

“And then I banished you.”

Qi Rong’s teeth click together anxiously at the memory, and there’s satisfaction in it for Hua Cheng, seeing the green ghost’s bravado flicker.

“…Just before you murdered me,” He hisses, his fingers scrabbling at the gravel with bitterness.

“Does your precious emperor know about that?!” He sneers. “Or do you think he’d banish you again, if he knew? HA! Always such a liar—”

“He probably does know,” Xie Lian replies. “Either way, it doesn’t bother me.”

“What?” Qi Rong finally manages to sit up properly.

“Has this ancestor’s esteemed cousin finally stopped pretending that he’s some saint?!”

That actually makes him smile, somehow. In spite of it all.

“I never thought of myself as a saint, Qi Rong.” He murmurs. “It’s been centuries since I thought of myself generously at all.”

He can’t see the way Hua Cheng grimaces in response to that.

“But,” Xie Lian blinks owlishly, “what I did to you—that’s never haunted me at all,” he admits.

Qi Rong’s eyes flare, infuriated.

“Actually, I feel pretty good about it.”

“Wh—?!”

“It’s a good memory for me.”

Xie Lian explains. “Sometimes I might be having a bad day, and I’ll remember. It cheers me up,” he crosses his arms, tilting his head to the side. “But now, I have to admit—it’s become even more amusing.”

Qi Rong can handle many things. Endure most forms of suffering.

What he can’t stand, in the end, is being looked down on.

That’s why his cousin has always been one of the few that could truly get to him—straight to the core.

“You were so terrified of human face disease, you allied yourself with the creature that destroyed Xianle…”

Xie Lian won’t utter Bai Wuxiang’s name, not even now—but he recalls his alliance with Qi Rong with utter contempt.

“Then, centuries later, you’re still murdering people in their name,” Xie Lian concludes, shaking his head. “It’s pitiful, really.”

The green ghost glares up at him venomously, blood streaked down his chin.

Even in his own skin, they look alike. Similar facial structures. Family resemblances, and all that. Qi Rong’s hair is slightly darker, a little curlier. His nose and chin are sharper, and…

There’s this hatefulness to his expression that his cousin lacks. A harshness to the curve of his mouth, a constant sneer.

But that hatred is never quite so pronounced as when he looks up at Xie Lian, hands trembling with the desire to throttle him.

“You sure are comfortable, having a Ghost King around to protect you, huh?” Qi Rong sneers, turning his glare on Hua Cheng, who stares back at him with impassivity. “It’s easy to show up here, insult me in my own house, pretend you’re above me—!”

“I am,” Xie Lian replies.

“And San Lang doesn’t need to protect me from you,” he kneels down, crossing his arms over his knees as he stares at Qi Rong, displaying an eerie ability to make eye contact, even when he can’t see what he’s looking at. “If you disagree, try to hit me. I won’t let him stop you.”

Of course, Qi Rong knows better than to try—but still, he has no impulse control.

Xie Lian catches his fist with ease, squeezing, holding it in place as Qi Rong’s arm trembles from the strain.

“Wow,” the god murmurs, his tone bitingly sarcastic. “Qi Rong has gotten so strong.”

Of course, Xie Lian’s cousin has always been weak.

Even the worst things he’s achieved in his life—he always had help.

In the case of the Guilded Banquet, it was An Le who did most of the work.

And in Hong-er’s case…

Qi Rong was only able to hurt him because of Bai Wuxiang.

Xie Lian knows—Hong’er would have kept silent as a choice. And he also chose not to fight back.

If he had, it would have awoken Xie Lian—and the White Clothed Calamity would have gone after him.

But in a one on one fight, even at seventeen—Hong’er could have handled Qi Rong.

After all, Qi Rong led a life of privilege and wealth from a young age, and Xie Lian’s…

His Hong’er was a soldier.

“It’s no surprise you’re listed as one of the four calamities,” Xie Lian murmurs, his tone light. “I’m trembling with fear.”

His hands have never been so steady.

It’s hard now, to remember that day, and not resort to the anger he once felt. To resist the urge to rip the green ghost apart.

But Xie Lian is no longer the only one with a grudge against Qi Rong. His life isn’t solely for the prince to take.

And in any case…

Xie Lian has had eight centuries to think about his old life.

He knows now, beating Qi Rong will never get the reaction that you want.

“But it’s not because you’re weak,” the prince murmurs, still holding Qi Rong’s fist between his fingers. “That isn’t why you’re beneath me.”

He lets go of the green ghost’s fist, rising to his feet.

“I’m not a good person,” Xie Lian admits calmly.

Hua Cheng looks on, his expression…complicated.

“I’ve done horrible things, but—” He tilts his chin down, looking down on Qi Rong.

Just as the prince always has.

No matter how many statues Qi Rong toppled down, smashing them to the ground, trying to change their positions—somehow, it always ends up the same.

“Because you are your father’s son,” Xie Lian murmurs.

He doesn’t need to see to know that Qi Rong has flinched.

“And I don’t think I could ever sink that low.”

Qi Rong’s father was quickly forgotten after he died. Only living in the memories of those who knew him.

HIs horrors, his cruelties, are only remembered by the likes of Xie Lian and Qi Rong.

A comparison so vile, so insulting, that even Xie Lian’s cousin recoiled from it.

“…Shut up,” he mutters, wrenching away, pounding his fists against the ground. “Shut up! …SHUT THE FUCK UP! I’VE HEARD ENOUGH FROM YOU! YOU LAME, PATHETIC FAILURE!”

Xie Lian has heard it all.

“YOU COCKSUCKING MOTHERFUCKER!”

Now THAT is colorful.

Maybe he /hasn’t/ heard it all.

Hua Cheng’s eye flashes dangerously, and the only thing that’s holding him back from dismembering Qi Rong is Xie Lian’s implied order to hold back, but—

“YOU SON OF A—!”

/THUMP!/

“…AHHH!”

It would seem that Lang Qianqiu, who had been frozen with horror up until now, was finally stirred into action.

Leaping forward and, with one sweep of his sword—cutting Qi Rong in two at his middle.

“Lang Qianqiu!” Xie Lian cries, startled. “Don’t be so rash!”

“What?!” His student sends him a sharp look, as though Xie Lian has lost his mind. “Did you not hear what he said?! HE PLOTTED THE MURDER OF MY ENTIRE CLAN! WHY SHOULDN’T I TAKE HIS ROTTEN LIFE?! LOOK WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU!”

Xie Lian flinches.

See, this is why he doesn’t share.

You give away one little peep about an admittedly not-so-great time in your life, and boom!

It’s part of Lang Qianqiu’s backstory now, not just his own.

And in part, that’s fair.

But in another way, it isn’t.

“It’s not as easy as chopping him up,” Hua Cheng rolls his eyes.

“You would have to know the location of his ashes, then destroy them.”

“Fine!” The prince snarls, his shoulders trembling with rage. “Then I’ll find them! I don’t care how long it takes!”

Xie Lian opens his mouth to protest, then he hears this…

Weird pattering on the floor.

Like an animal, almost…but not exactly. It’s four distinct points of contact against the floor, but there’s something odd about it.

From behind him, Hua Cheng grimaces. “I could have lived without the sight of that.”

Xie Lian glances toward him, confused, and he explains:

“He’s…fleeing.” Then, to clarify, he tacks on— “In pieces.”

Oh.

Xie Lian grimaces at the thought—but he’s spared the sight of Qi Rong’s detached legs and hips running across the room, smacking to the opposite wall, while his torso and head flee by walking on his hands.

“THIS ISN’T OVER, ASSHOLES! HEY! HEY! OVER—DAMMIT—” He hand-walks himself over to his legs, tries to grab his ankle with one hand, but that sends him tumbling over in a heap. “THIS ANCESTOR WILL BE THE ONE TO COME OUT ON TOP IN THE END!”

Xie Lian rubs his temples with a groan.

Honestly, it’s humiliating to think that the two of them are even related.

He half expects Lang Qianqiu to go charging after him, but the martial god seems to gauge that, given Qi Rong’s limited mobility, he’s allowed to have a head start.

Instead, he looks to Xie Lian.

“Are you done?” The prince doesn’t immediately respond, but that doesn’t deter him. “Now that I know, can you just tell me one thing?”

Xie Lian lets out a tired sigh, dropping his hands from his face.

“What is it?”

“My father.” Lang Qianqiu mutters.

“What happened between the two of you?”

Xie Lian falls silent, the memory pricking uncomfortably at the edges of his mind.

“…It won’t make you feel better, Lang Qianqiu,” he whispers.

The truth is so much worse than living with the lie.

“Guoshi…that isn’t up to you.”

No, he supposes not.

“Was he already hurt, when you found him?”

“…Yes,” Xie Lian admits, wrapping his arms around himself.

“Badly?”

He bites his lip, trying not to remember the trusting look in the king’s eyes.

“Yes,” Xie Lian mutters. “He wouldn’t have survived.”

He could try to play it off, say that he wasn’t sure, but…

Xie Lian remembers it well. The agony the man was in. The slow, inevitable death that laid before him.

“…Then why?”

He wants to argue, to say what he’s been saying—that knowing doesn’t fix anything, but…

Ignorance didn’t help either. They still ended up here.

If Xie Lian was the person he used to be, he would have been angry with Hua Cheng for doing this. Would have blamed him, for the pain and regret that he’s feeling right now.

But he doesn’t.

Xie Lian did this.

“…He ordered me to have the guards go out and kill the people of Xianle in retaliation,” Xie Lian mutters, holding himself a little tighter.

After all, he knows what it’s like—to love one’s father, but to learn to feel disappointed in him.

“If he had lived any longer than he did, he would have given the orders to the guards who were remaining,” Xie Lian concludes, feeling hollowed out. “That’s why I…”

Why he helped the king along, allowing him to die quickly. Relatively painlessly.

“…I wouldn’t have let them,” Lang Qianqiu stares at Xie Lian, his expression impossible to read. Caught between so many different emotions—

So much pain.

“You know I wouldn’t have.”

“…I did,” his Guoshi agrees. “But I didn’t want that to be your last memory of your father.”

The prince falls silent, his posture telling a story of tension.

Xie Lian couldn’t have predicted what he was going to say.

“…Instead, you chose to take away the last loved one I had left. The closest thing I would have had to family,” Lang Qianqiu points out quietly. “You.”

Xie Lian couldn’t have known how much it would hurt to hear it.

“…You didn’t need me,” he mutters, holding himself tightly, his shoulders hunching inward.

“Yes, I did,” Lang Qianqiu whispers.

He needed his Guoshi so much, his voice still aches from the memory of it.

“I was seventeen years old, and I was alone.” He mumbles, his voice wavering. “How easy was that for you?”

Hua Cheng stiffens, clearly riled by the comparison—but Xie Lian simply hangs his head.

“It wasn’t.”

Lang Qianqiu closes his eyes, breathing in slowly through his nose. Xie Lian can feel it now, how hard he’s trying to think about his words, to put thought behind his actions.

Beyond the hurt, the anger, and the guilt—he cares for his Guoshi, and doesn’t want to be impulsive.

But that doesn’t mean that his words don’t cause pain—even if they both needed to hear them.

“…I know you thought you were doing the right thing,” Lang Qianqiu mutters. Maybe he didn’t before, but he does now. “But this was never about me.”

Xie Lian’s stomach sinks.

“You…” The prince of Yong’an shakes his head, “I don’t know if you were in that much pain, or if—if you hated yourself that much, but—”

Hua Cheng’s eye narrows sharply, “Watch it, boy.”

“San Lang—” Xie Lian’s voice is small, but his plea is sincere. “Let him speak.”

“…You used me to hurt yourself,” Lang Qianqiu concludes, and each word hits like a weight in Xie Lian’s chest.

The same weight that his student now bears, forced to live with the knowledge of what he put his Guoshi through.

“I have to live with that, but so do you.”

Xie Lian’s body physically reacts to the words, shrinking, curling in on itself, as though that could somehow shield him from the pain that’s churning inside.

Because Lang Qianqiu is right.

‘I-I didn’t want to do that!’

It hurts.

Remembering how much pain Xie Lian caused.

‘Why did you make me do that?!’

Being cradled in Lang Qianqiu’s arms as the boy wept, frightened and alone.

And—

‘I-I still need you!’

He said that.

Xie Lian’s throat tightens.

He had forgotten that Lang Qianqiu said that, back then.

‘I’m so sorry, Guoshi…’

It hurts.

Because—

‘What do we do, when faced with the wicked?’

Lang Qianqiu is right.

Xie Lian wanted to be punished for failing. Not just in that instance, but in so many others.

He wanted to throw himself on the sword, before it could land on someone else.

But forcing Lang Qianqiu to hurt him—that wasn’t protecting him.

The truth is—Xie Lian hurt him deeply.

The Crown Prince of Yong’an turns away, leaving the cavern without a word, clearly going after Qi Rong.

Hua Cheng’s lips curve into a snarl as he goes to follow, but—

“Don’t,” Xie Lian warns him, and when the Ghost king seems reluctant to obey, he mumble—

“If you go, I’ll be angry.”

And that draws Hua Cheng to a dead halt.

Not because Xie Lian sounds cross with him—just the opposite.

The prince of Xianle sounds…

Profoundly sad.

“…He had no right to speak to you that way,” the Ghost King mutters darkly, turning back to Xie Lian. “Someone should teach him sense—”

“He had every right.” His god interrupts him—and even as his voice aches, it’s firm.

“I hurt him. Why bring him here, give him the chance to see things clearly and then forbid him from having emotions about it?”

“He needed to know what you actually did—and why,” Hua Cheng comes to a stop in front of Xie Lian, watching the way his god nearly slumps from the guilt

“…You don’t even seem to realize what I actually did,” Xie Lian mutters bitterly, shaking his head.

“Dianxia—”

“I manipulated him,” the prince turns away, his voice slightly raw, his ribs hurting from how tightly he’s holding himself. “I patronized him. I lied to him.”

“Your intentions were to protect him,” Hua Cheng follows behind him, not allowing Xie Lian to shrink too far away with self loathing.

“No,” Xie Lian croaks, swallowing thickly. “I thought that’s what they were, but…I was just…It was my fault, and I wanted to be punished.”

“That was Qi Rong, and An Le.” Hua Cheng corrects him firmly, “Not you.”

“No…” Xie Lian feels frustration building in his chest, struggling to explain what, to him, has long since been an accepted part of his reality. “I was too comfortable.”

Hua Cheng pauses, eyebrows raised.

“What?”

The prince groans, pressing his palms against his temples.

“I stayed too long, and I…I was too happy,” he mutters, fingers knowing in his hair. “I’m a god of misfortune, Hua Cheng. When I stay in one place for too long, I…”

He doesn’t cry. Not really, but…

His voice still cracks.

“I break things.”

There’s a pause, and then Xie Lian feels a warm, heavy weight upon his shoulder—Hua Cheng’s hand.

“…Oh, Dianxia,” the Ghost King sighs, his tone…rather loaded. “That isn’t true.”

Xie Lian bites his lip, trying to find some evidence that Hua Cheng might be right. To find a time when something he loved didn’t suffer or break as a result of his failure.

He can find none.

And yet…

Hua Cheng seems so sure of it. Of himself.

“…San Lang?” He whispers.

Another hand comes to rest on his shoulder, the shadow of an embrace.

There’s been something bothering him, ever since Hua Cheng came and plucked him from the heavens. Something subliminal, maybe.

Still, Xie Lian looks back over his shoulder,

“…Have we met before?”

A few hundred meters away, Qi Rong staggers through the exit of the cavern, hands tugging at the hem of his robes as he tries to pull himself back together.

“Stupid…incompetent…BASTARDS!” He snarls, pawing at his legs miserably. “STAY—STAY STILL, DAMMIT! GOD FUCKING—!”

Suddenly, he finds himself lifted up by his hair once again—a far easier task, given his recent loss of half of his bodyweight—

Only to find himself face to face with the Crown Prince of Yong’an once more.

“…the FUCK?!” Qi Rong glares, his detached lower half kicking around.

“HOW DID YOU CATCH UP ALREADY?!”

“…You weren’t exactly moving fast,” Lang Qianqiu glares, turning around to make his way back into the cave.

“You could’ve given me a HEAD START!” The green ghost glares, “You already CUT ME IN HALF, ASSHOLE—WHY ARE WE GOING BACK IN?!”

Lang Qianqiu did technically give him a head start—if only to confront his Guoshi—but now, he has other things in mind.

“I’m going to through your head into that cauldron of yours, and feed you to your little minions,” the martial god growls, his eyes burning scarlet with anger.

“…HAHA!” THe green ghost cackles, eyes widening with surprised delight. “Well, would you look at that?! Cousin crown prince’s student is a little TORTURER! HA! THAT’S SO FUCKING HILARIOUS!”

/BAM!/

His laugher is muffled when his skull is slammed into the mountainside.

“Does it count as torture when it’s someone lower than a beast?!” The crown prince of Yong’an hisses, slamming him into the stone formation once more, drawing more muffled laughter from the creature.

“HAHAHA! I’m SURE YOU—YOU’D LIKE TO THINK SO!”

Lang Qianqiu yanks the head back, finding Qi Rong’s face streaked with blood as he cackles and chortles with satisfaction, teeth gleaming in the moonlight.

“Do whatever you like! THIS ANCESTOR WILL JUST COME BACK TEN TIMES WORSE, HE’S PRACTICALLY A CALAMITY ALREADY!”

“You—!”

Lan Qianqiu snarls, dragging him into the cave entrance, prepared to make good on his threats—until something very odd happens.

He trips.

The martial god has never been clumsy, particularly not when he’s so focused, but…

Here he is, sprawled in the dirt.

He could’ve sworn…

…It was almost as though a root jumped up from the ground, wrapping itself around his ankle.

“How the—?” He questions, pushing himself up onto his elbows, looking back—and finding nothing there.

Qi Rong cackles, running forward on his hands, “CATCH ME IF YOU CAN, FUCKER! HA—!”

The little monster stops laughing all of the sudden, falling silent, and before Lang Qianqiu can turn around to see what it is, he hears an unfamiliar voice ringing through the forest.

Soft, taunting—with an almost melodic smoothness to it’s tone.

“Hello, Qi Rong.”

There’s a soft jingling ringing through the air as Lang Qianqiu rolls over onto his back, still sprawled out on the ground as he pulls himself to sit up.

Through the darkness, he sees a set of eyes, and nothing else.

One the color of the leaves above.

The other, a flame.

“Did you make a new friend?” The voice purrs.

Unlike before, facing the threats of a ghost king and two martial gods—now, Qi Rong grows pale, pulling himself back in Lang Qianqiu’s direction.

(As though he might prefer going into the boiling cauldron.)

“You seem a little…torn.”

“R…REAL fuckin’ funny, Ren Song!” The Green Ghost glares, “I’LL RIP YOU IN HALF, NEXT TIME!”

The only response he receives is tinkling laughter, and Lang Qianqiu has had enough.

“What, you you think your ally can save you?!”

“Ally?”

Ren Song questions coldly, stepping into the moonlight.

Hands clasped behind his back, black and emerald robes stirring slightly with the breeze.

“You’re rather ignorant, aren’t you?” His expression turns imperious, and Lang Qianqiu’s cheeks grow hot.

Partly from sheepishness.

But also—

Because that smug, arrogant air about him is similar to that of Crimson Rain Sought Flower.

For obvious reasons, the prince isn’t fond of the similarity.

“Were you the one who cut him in half?”

“I…” Lang Qianqiu opens his mouth to answer, then stops.

…What is he doing, complying with a ghost?!

“…” The prince rises to his feet, clearing his throat. He stands substantially taller than the forest demon—and still, he feels the need to square his shoulders and puff his chest out.

“I’ll be the one asking the questions, demon!”

Ren Song tilts his head back, slowly arching an eyebrow. “Is that so, brat?”

“…Excuse me?” The god glares, eyes burning slightly brighter, and the ghost doesn’t seem intimidated, tossing his hair back over his shoulders, earrings jingling as he does so.

“Did I misunderstand?” Ren Song muses, taking a step closer. “I thought we were going back and forth calling each other things that were obvious.” He stops in front of him, eyes widening innocently. “I could have called you an imbecile,” he adds, tilting his head.

He rolls on the balls of his feet to get further into the god’s space, hands still clasped behind his back.

“Or obnoxious,” he hisses, eyes glinting with a playful form of condescending. “Which one of those do you prefer?”

“…” Lang Qianqiu huffs out a breath, leaning back.

“You may refer to me as General Tai Hua,” he clears his throat, squaring himself once more. “Or your highness. Clearly you aren’t aware—but I’m the Martial God of the East. We’re in my territory.”

Ren Song’s eyes widen with mocking surprise, “Is that so? Oh, dear…”

He even goes so far as to allow his lower lip to wobble fretfully.

“You aren’t going to disperse me, are you, General Tai Hua?”

“…Not if you stay out of my way,” the prince shakes his head, going for Qi Rong again.

Ren Song watches, dumbfounded.

…Is he really stupid?

“…And you’re the one who cut him in half?” The forest demon repeats dryly, watching his movements.

“I’m about to do worse than that.” Lang Qianqiu mutters darkly. “And you shouldn’t be calling people older than you brats.”

Now, the demon’s eyes flash with irritation.

Visually speaking, Lang Qianqiu is in his early twenties. Ironically enough, he actually looks older than the prince of Xianle.

And Ren Song, despite possessing skins that make him look older…his natural form leaves him looking somewhere near eighteen or nineteen years old.

Permanently a teenager. Thankfully he’s no longer visually a chid, or a pre-teen,b it—

He doesn’t enjoy the reminder of his unnaturally prolonged youth.

“And what do you mean by worse, General Tai Hua?”

“I’m going to destroy this body of his,” the god mutters.

“Then, I’m going to find his ashes and destroy them.”

That makes Ren Song’s eyes widen sharply.

“…Destroy?” He questions softly. “You mean to disperse the creature?”

Lang Qianqiu nods, distracted, having good assumed that much was already obvious from his own words.

“He destroyed my clan,” the prince replies, reaching down to yank Qi Rong up by the back of his collar. “It’s my right.”

Ren Song’s lips press into a firm line. “You should be warned,” he murmurs, his tone low and flat, “there are others who have already laid claim to his life.”

That hadn’t exactly occurred to the martial god, but he shrugs. “Well, it would appear that I’ve gotten him first. I’m sure that any of them would understand—!”

/THUD!/

Something grabs the back of his robes, yanking until he’s swept from his feet and slammed against the ground.

Qi Rong flies from his hands tumbling and rolling against the ground until his face slams into a tree—and when Lang Qianqiu tries to sit up again, there’s a foot on his chest, keeping him down.

“Your Guoshi should have taught you more about ghosts, it seems,.”

Ren Song leans over him, lips pulled back to reveal sharpened canines, gleaming menacingly in the moonlight. And when he speaks, his eyes flash brighter.

“You don’t get between a ghost and it’s prey.”

He might be smaller than Lang Qianqiu—but the power behind his leg is enough to keep the god pinned to the ground, struggling to throw him off.

“Your prey?!” The prince glares, gripping the ghost by the ankle as he tries to yank him off, to no avail. “What gives you the right?!”

“You’re not the only one whose life got ruined by that piece of shit,” Ren Song’s foot presses down harder, the heel digging into Lang Qianqiu’s skin through his robes. “I got him first. His life is mine. Understand? Or should I speak slower?” He sneers.

“…Alright,” Lang Qianqiu closes his eyes, breathing in through his nose. “You might be small, but you aren’t weak. My mistake.”

Somehow, Ren Song seems more irritated than he was before. “Small?”

“But,” the prince of Yong’an’s grip tightens around the ghost’s ankle.

“I’m not stupid.”

That’s when the demon hears it.

Something whistling through the air—and while his strength aided by gravity was enough to keep the god down—

He can’t pull his foot free.

/BAM!/

The flat of the sword slams into the small of the forest demon’s back, and of course—that’s when Lang Qianqiu let’s go of his ankle, sending him flying.

“Oof!”

The blow would be strong enough to knock out a weaker opponent, but Ren Song only ends up slightly winded, coughing.

Lang Qianqiu leaps to his feet, turning back on Qi Rong, who has started attempting to log roll into the shrubbery.

(Which is hard, it turns out, when your hips are detached.)

But before he gets close, he hears the words—

“Gege, can I eat this one?”

Then, a pause.

A long pause.

Then, Ren Song lets out an irritated snarl, charging after the martial god.

“Who are you talking to?!”

“I’m not talking to anyone,” the ghost glares, “he didn’t answer, so I’ll just take a few bites WHILE I’M WAITING!”

At first, Lang Qianqiu assumes he must have been speaking about Qi Rong, since he claimed to have his own vendetta, but—

The martial god is the one who ends up getting tackled.

“WAIT—ME?!”

“WHO ELSE?!”

“MAYBE THE GHOST YOU SAID RUINED YOUR LIFE?!”

The individuals in question have over millennia of battle experience between the two of them. Each feared and respected within their own spheres for their might. Disciples of two of the most powerful beings to walk the earth.

And right now, they’re wrestling like children.

“I DON’T WANT HIM DEAD AT THE MOMENT!”

“HOW DO I RANK HIGHER ON YOUR PRIORITIES?!”

They roll over until Ren Song is straddling his hips, one hand wrapped around the prince’s throat while the other pulls back, claws extended—

“I’M A COMPLICATED PERSON!” He snarls.

“AND I’M NOT SMALL!”

His hand plunges downward, nails scraping against the martial god’s cheek before Lang Qianqiu catches him by the wrist.

“Okay! OKAY!” He wheezes as Ren Song’s grip on his throat tightens. “I COULD HAVE PHRASED THAT DIFFERENTLY—!”

“HOW?!”

“…Undersized?”

Now, the ghost squeezes until Lang Qianqiu’s eyes bulge from his skull.

“O-OKAY…” He wheezes, “SPRITE-LIKE?!”

“I DON’T KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS!”

“This—THIS IS STUPID!” The prince glares, coughing, “GET OFF!”

“BACK OFF OF MY KILL, AND I WILL!”

“Why should he even be YOUR KILL?!” Lang Qianqiu shouts, gripping Ren Song’s wrist with one hand, using the other to attempt and pull the ghost’s hand from his throat, “I already said—HE SLAUGHTERED MY CLAN!”

“AND?! HE KILLED MY BROTHER!”

“WELL, I’M SORRY FOR YOUR LOSS!” Lang Qianqiu shouts, still looking infuriated, and Ren Song pauses, his brow furrowing with confusion, but he still maintains a wrathful tone.

“…THANKS!”

“BUT ONE BROTHER VERSUS AN ENTIRE CLAN?! YOU CAN’T COMPARE THE TWO!”

“HAH?!”

The ghost sputters, his eyes widening with annoyance, “it’s not MY FAULT that I didn’t come from some BIG FANCY CLAN or that my siblings were ALREADY DEAD!”

“No, but IT DOES MEAN THAT I LOST MORE THAN YOU DID!”

“HE WAS THE ONLY FAMILY I HAD LEFT?! IT’S THE SAME THING!”

This time, when Ren Song hears that familiar whirring in the air, he’s prepared for it, releasing Lang Qianqiu’s throat as he ducks, dodging the incoming sword—but the martial god uses that as an opportunity to flip them over, pinning the ghost down by the wrists.

“Look!” He glares, slamming Ren Song back down when he attempts to kick free, “I’m not unreasonable, alright?! We can take him down together, if that’s what you want! Fair?!”

“NO!” The demon huffs, blowing his bangs out of his face. “I just said I DON’T WANT HIM DEAD RIGHT NOW!”

“That makes NO sense, and if you want to get revenge, YOU’RE GONNA HAVE TO COMPROMISE!” Lang Qianqiu huffs. “When did he kill your brother, anyway?!”

“A century ago!” Ren Song hisses, “Why does that matter?!”

“Well, he killed my clan THREE centuries ago, so he got me FIRST!”

“OH?! THEN WHY HAVEN’T I BUMPED INTO YOU UNTIL NOW?!” Ren Song tugs at his wrists until the skin bruises from it, but with Lang Qianqiu on top of him, his size provides a natural advantage.

“WELL—I DIDN’T KNOW IT WAS HIM UNTIL HALF AN HOUR AGO!”

“THEN HE GOT ME FIRST!”

“NO! THAT’S NOT HOW THAT WORKS! YOU JUST KNEW ABOUT IT FIRST!”

Ren Song opens his mouth to argue more, then seems to become utterly exasperated by the situation, ramming his leg up until it slams into, well—

A very sensitive area, leaving Lang Qianqiu wheezing and rolling off.

The forest demon sits up, his ponytail knocked askew by the wrestling, loose pieces of hair falling into his face as he whips his head around, looking for the—

“…Fuck,” he mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Lang Qianqiu is rolling around, hunched and wheezing.

“That…wasn’t…honorable!”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Ren Song hisses, whipping his head around to pin a glare on the martial god. “Now look what you did!”

Lang Qianqiu sits up—with no small amount of trouble—and sees that Qi Rong’s torso has gone limp, eyes wide and unseeing.

“…Is he dead?” the prince mutters, eyes widening slightly. His own hair is a tousled mess from the exchange, finger shaped bruises forming around his throat. “That feels kind of anticlimactic—”

“He was already dead, dipshit,” Ren Song sneers.

“The word you’re thinking of is dispersed, and no, he just…”

The ghost groans, his face sinking into his hands.

“He’s probably possessed one of those human prisoners and run off.”

Meaning…

He got away.

Lang Qianqiu sits there, stewing in his frustration.

“…I had him!” He snaps. “Don’t talk to me like it’s my fault when YOU’RE the one who got in the way!”

“HA!” Ren Song laughs, but with no mirth. “Isn’t that hypocritical.”

Before Lang Qianqiu can ask what he means, the ghost rises to his feet, brushing himself off.

“…Where are you going?”

“Where do you think?” He mutters, pushing his hair behind his ears. “To go find him. Which wasn’t fucking easy the first time, you irritating, entitled little—”

He stops when Lang Qianqiu rises to his feet, following after him.

“…What are you doing?”

The god blinks back at him, arching an eyebrow. “What does it look like? We’re both looking for the same ghost.”

“…No,” Ren Song glares, hands balling into fists. “You’re not coming with me.”

“I wouldn’t say I’m going WITH you, we’re just both going to the same destination.”

“…I swear to hell, I’ll kick you in the balls again,” Ren Song glares at him sharply, which only results in Lang Qianqiu moving out of kicking distance.

“That’s not going to stop me!” He mutters as they walk deeper into the forest.

“Oh really?”

/Thud./

The prince blinks.

/Thud./

“What was it you said before?” Ren Song taps his chin with his finger, “See here, I’m a martial god and we’re in MY territory! Look how big my dick is!’”

He even deepens his voice for proper mocking effect.

Lang Qianqiu looks property scandalized. “I never said that—!”

/Thud./

“Any forest is my territory,” Ren Song cuts him off coldly. “So, do you really think you’re in a position to be pestering me?”

“…”

/Thud./

Lang Qianqiu’s expression turns somewhat grim.

“…You brought the panda, didn’t you?”

Ren Song’s smile reeks of quiet smugness.

A roar rumbles through the trees as the bear lunges from the darkness, and Lang Qianqiu barely manages to dodge it, smacking into a tree that wasn’t there before, but—

“Oh, I always bring Dian Dian.”

…This is going to be troublesome.

While chaos is unfolding outside, inside the cave, it remains quiet.

All of the little green ghosts and humans having fled to the outer chambers, looking to make their escape.

Only two remain: a god and a devil.

And the devil is taking quite some time to answer.

It was a simple question.

‘Have we met before?’

But it’s been so long, the silence feels like it’s own kind of anger. Something between a yes and a no.

Hua Cheng’s hands feel heavy on his shoulders. Not holding Xie Lian down, but still—

The weight of them feels enormous.

Xie Lian waits so long, his mind has room to wander. To find beasts in the dark to be frightened of, but—

Eventually, there’s a sound.

A low, strained noise, somewhere between a grunt and a whimper.

Like…

Like Hua Cheng is in pain.

“…San Lang?”

Xie Lian turns his head, meaning to turn around and make sure he’s alright, but…

Those hands grip him slightly tighter now, keeping him in place.

“Is something wrong?”

“…Just an old wound acting up, your highness.” The Ghost King replies, his voice clearly strained.

“It’s nothing you should worry yourself with.”

Xie Lian frowns, because of course—he does worry.

“I didn’t know ghosts struggled with such things,” he admits, his brow creasing.

“Any wounds after death will heal, of course.” Hua Cheng murmurs, biting back the taste of blood.

“It’s the ones that killed you that linger.”

The mere sound of that makes Xie Lian’s stomach sink. “…Is it still bleeding? Do you need me to—?”

Then again, he has no idea what sort of injury killed Hua Cheng, and it seems disrespectful to ask.

“No, no…” he shakes his head.

“It just…”

It hurts sometimes.

(Though what Xie Lian could not possibly know is that it hurts all the time. Every moment. An ever lasting kind of ache, the bittersweet kind of longing that is only soothed by the prince’s presence.)

Hua Cheng’s eye closes for a moment.

“…What made you ask that?”

Xie Lian glances up, horribly distracted by the prospect of the Ghost King being injured. “What?”

“…If we had met before,” Hua Cheng explains, watching the look on the crown prince’s face. “I’m curious.”

And it isn’t exactly a denial, either.

“…You knew Qi Rong was involved, just from hearing the circumstances from me and Lang Qianqiu.” Xie Lian murmurs. “Which means you knew that he had a motive that connected him to An Le and the rebels from Xianle…”

Meaning—he likely knew exactly who Qi Rong was as a mortal.

His connections to Xianle—and by extension, Xie Lian.

There are very few people left these days who know anything about Xianle. Most of those stories have been lost to time.

And he knows that Hua Cheng is close to his own age, having recognized Lang Ying’s illness immeadiately.

Which means there is a decent chance that Xie Lian met him during his mortal life. Or, during his first ascension as a god.

It would certainly explain why he feels so at ease with Hua Cheng. Why they get on so well.

But Xie Lian can’t think of who he would have been.

The prince can’t imagine he would have forgotten meeting someone like Hua Cheng—yet, at the same time, he can’t recall having met someone who would fit his description that could still be wandering the earth.

There are mitigating factors, of course.

Hua Cheng could have been younger—it would be difficult for Xie Lian to find resemblance between a youth and a grown man through touch alone, and he’s never seen Hua Cheng clearly.

And, he lost his eye after he died, so that can’t be taken as a clue either…

“As usual,” Hua Cheng murmurs, his eye remaining closed. “His highness is clever. The plan seemed his style—and I was already aware of his connections to Xianle. Was that the only reason you asked?”

Honestly?

No.

Xie Lian asked, because…

It feels like Hua Cheng knows him.

He perceives Xie Lian’s discomfort when others don’t. Often guesses what he’s thinking, or answers questions before the prince even needs to ask.

It’s rare that anyone pays attention to him—and when they do, they’re always…disappointed by what they find.

“…But you won’t say whether or not we’ve met,” Xie Lian mutters. “Which makes it sound like we have.”

Hua Cheng’s hands tighten on his shoulders, almost imperceptibly. “If The answer was yes, why do you think I wouldn’t say so?”

Xie Lian falls silent, thinking.

“Either because you were hiding something, or because you couldn’t say so,” he concludes. “Those are the only options, really.”

“And do you?” Hua Cheng questions, raising an eyebrow. “Think I’m hiding something, I mean.”

“…I don’t,” Xie Lian admits.

Which really only means one of two things.

Either they really haven’t met before, which makes Hua Cheng’s silence baffling, or…

He really can’t say.

But what would stop him from saying so?

None of it makes any sense—and the harder Xie Lian thinks about it, the more he…

“…” Hua Cheng watches him, expression strained, lingering somewhere between hope, and remorse. “Would it change very much, either way?”

He’s trying to soothe Xie Lian for the fact that he’s struggling to puzzle together an answer.

And it works—in part.

“…If you had met me back then, you might know…”Xie Lian starts, then stops, biting his lip.

“Know what?” Hua Cheng prompts gently.

“…” The god turns his head away, clutching something hanging from his neck.

“…I’m not who you think I am, San Lang,” he whispers.

There’s a brief pause, then the Ghost King questions, “What do you mean?”

“I just…” Xie Lian swallows thickly.

It’s terrifying, sometimes—to think that someone could see all of him. Every ugly, warped piece of himself that he’s tried to hide away.

But it’s also lonely, sometimes. To be so isolated, that no one actually sees…

“…You just…you shouldn’t think of anytime as perfect, San Lang,” the prince mumbles, wrapping his arms around himself. “You’ll be disappointed.”

He does that often. Hugging himself.

It wasn’t something he used to do when he was young.

He never needed to, back then.

Hua Cheng is starting to notice it more and more often now.

And maybe he can’t answer Xie Lian’s questions. But he can do one thing.

“Dianxia…”

Hua Cheng’s hands lift from his shoulders—and for a moment, Xie Lian fears that the ghost king is going to take a step back, but…

Just the opposite.

Arms wrap around his waist, pulling him in.

It’s a gentle embrace, a cautious one, something that Xie Lian could have stopped.

He doesn’t.

(He doesn’t want to.)

It’s a kindness, one that is likely being extended because the prince has been visibly upset throughout all of this, but…

“When did I ever say that you had to be perfect?”

It’s a simple question, and yet—Xie Lian’s heart is in his throat.

His lips press together tightly, and for a moment…he leans back into the embrace, even going so far as to turn his head, pressing his face into the ghost king’s shoulder.

There’s been so much happening lately, and he…

Xie Lian feels hollowed out by it.

Since his ascension…those few days he spent with San Lang at Puqi shrine were the only moments he felt like he actually had a chance to take a break.

Since then, he was in the Crescent Moon Kingdom, then Ghost City, and now, this…

Almost like he can read Xie Lian’s mind, Hua Cheng gives his waist a gentle squeeze, murmuring—

“Dianxia should get some rest, after all of that.”

Xie Lian nods, taking a deep breath.

He knows that he needs a break.

“…Thank you,” he mutters.

Hua Cheng raises an eyebrow.

“…After all of that, I assumed his highness would be angry with me.”

“No,” Xie Lian mumbles, shaking his head, his cheek rubbing against the front of Hua Cheng’s robes. “I didn’t really like that spell you put on me—but the rest of it…”

The prince sighs heavily.

“You were right, and so was he.”

Xie Lian doesn’t lift his head.

“I needed to tell him. I was just…running away from it.”

“I wouldn’t call it that, your highness,” Hua Cheng’s tone is gentle, even though Xie Lian doesn’t feel like he deserves it.

“…You wouldn’t?”

“You were strategically retreating while contemplating your options.”

“…For three centuries?”

“You were weighing your options very carefully,” Hua Cheng replies breezily.

Xie Lian’s mouth twists, biting back a smile, and…

Laughter is muffled by the ghost king’s robes.

“San Lang, you’re—”

There are people out there with laughter that slips underneath your skin, tugging at the edges of your heart until it aches sweetly.

Xie Lian has always been one of them, but his laughs have become such a rare thing.

“—you’re too generous with me…”

“Impossible,” Hua Cheng replies easily, and Xie Lian…

He finally lifts his head, glancing up in the direction of Hua Cheng’s face.

“…Though—that wasn’t what I was thanking you for.”

“Oh?” The calamity raises an eyebrow. “Then what is it?”

“I…”

Xie Lian trails off, taking a breath. “What you said.”

‘When did I say that you had to be perfect?’

Hua Cheng arches an eyebrow, shaking his head. “That was nothing, dianxia—”

“No.” Xie Lian cuts him off firmly. “I…”

He swallows hard.

“No one has ever told me that before.”

And that makes him wonder how they could have possibly met before.

Because if Xie Lian had known someone like Hua Cheng, when he was a child—someone who would have told him something like that…

Fingers brush over his chin gently, guiding him to look up.

Xie Lian would have been so much happier, if he’d had that.

Their faces are tilted toward one another, and Hua Cheng’s expression is conflicted, as though he might want to say more, to do something more, but—

“I TOLD YOU!” A voice rings out. “I’m stronger in this form!”

Xie Lian jumps at the sound of Shi Qingxuan’s voice, and Hua Cheng’s eye twitches with annoyance. “HA! My luck was better too, you should have let me try this sooner!”

But who is with her—?

The two gods enter the cavern, and Xie Lian hears an all too familiar voice:

“Your highness—”

Hua Cheng doesn’t move, but Xie Lian immediately steps away, only too familiar after the arrival Lang Qianqiu before that it’s easy for those just arriving to…misinterpret what they see.

“Get away from him.” Feng Xin’s voice is low, firm, his bow drawn.

Hua Cheng glances over at the weapon, slightly weary.

That one is dangerous, and the bolt of spiritual energy crackling against the thread could cause damage, if fired.

Of course, he would win. But it would get ugly.

Xie Lian seems to sense the same thing, staying between Hua Cheng and the others, holding his arms out, “Look,” he calls over, “this has all just been a huge misunderstanding!”

“We can discuss it when you’re safe,” Feng Xin mutters. “Come here.”

Xie Lian’s jaw squares with stubbornness. “I am absolutely safe, Feng Xin. I haven’t been in danger for a single moment.”

Hua Cheng’s expression momentarily softens.

“Now, put aside your weapons, we can talk this out—!”

But before Xie Lian can finish making his plea, he feels hands gripping him by the shoulders—and Hua Cheng pulls the god behind him. Gently, but firmly, standing before him with his arms crossed.

E’Ming, who has done nothing but tremble with guilt all night, goes deathly still.

Feng Xin’s eyes narrow as he begins to brace himself for a fight—but that’s when Shi Qingxuan speaks up, waving her whisk nervously.

“C-Crimson Rain! There’s no need for this! What happened to Paradise Manor was an accident, his highness had nothing to do with it!”

“Wh—?” Xie Lian blinks quickly, throwing his hands up, “I set the fire!”

“Yes, but I’m the one who blew it out of control!” Shi Qingxuan cries, throwing an arm over her face, “If you’re going to punish anyone, let it BE ME! Or my brother! He can pay you double the cost!”

“But San Lang already told me that—!”

“I haven’t even counted your emperor sending someone to spy on me,” Hua Cheng glares, easily shifting to block Xie Lian when he attempts to interfere. “So, there’s nothing to discuss.”

Xie Lian glances in the direction of their voices, and slowly, he begins to put it together.

They’re putting on a show for the people listening—but if Xie Lian allows them to do that, won’t everyone blame San Lang?

“…Stop pretending,” he frowns, trying to lean around him.

When Hua Cheng shifts in front of him once more, he frowns, leaning up on his toes to try and speak over his shoulder, and when that’s not enough, the god has to make a rather undignified hop, “You know San Lang was just trying to save me! Why pretend he did something wrong?”

“…Well,” the wind master tosses her hair, “everyone in the communication array already heard what they needed to, so now we don’t have to keep on.”

“I wasn’t pretending,” Feng Xin glares. He still hasn’t lowered his bow, his gaze fixed on the ghost king.

Shi Qingxuan ignores him for the time being, opting to explain things to the prince—

“Your highness, everyone was going to make a poor judgement regardless. Why not let it be of Hua Cheng, whom they had a bad impression of from the start? That way, there’s no harm done.”

Despite being the one blamed, Hua Cheng sounds pleased when he replies—

“You get it.”

“Of course,” Shi Qingxuan grins, hands on her hips. “How would I, Lady Wind Master, be the most popular goddess AND god in the heavens if I didn’t know how to work a group?”

Finally, she turns back to Feng Xin, who is still standing at the ready. “Are you going to put that thing down before someone gets hurt? Those two are clearly on good terms. Don’t be stubborn, now.”

Feng Xin doesn’t look at her and he certainly doesn’t respond.

“…Come on now, don’t be stubborn,” Shi Qingxuan frowns.

That’s when the idea seems to occur to her—and if Xie Lian could have seen the look in her eye, he would have warned her, but—

Instead, she lunges forward, pressing her chest against Feng Xin’s arm, batting her eyelashes.

“Come on,” She pouts, hugging his arm as she rubs her ample assets against his bicep, “I know you’re a big /strong/ man, but can’t you put that down and talk it out?”

It’s effective. But not in the most flattering way.

Feng Xin stares, the color promptly draining from his face.

Shi Qingxuan stares, trying to process THAT reaction, because she was sort of expecting his complexion to go in the OPPOSITE direction, but—

Feng Xin screams.

More accurately, he jumps three feet in the air, his cry blood curdling as his arrows disappear in a puff of smoke.

“THE FUCK?!”

When he lands, he doesn’t do so gracefully, falling on his ass, scrambling away from Shi Qingxuan in a blind panic.

“D-DON’T YOU EVER DO THAT AGAIN! DON’T YOU DARE!!” He shouts, pointing a trembling finger in her direction.

The Wind Master stares.

“…Good god…”

She frowns, tossing her hair in offense, but her gaze is somewhat distraught.

After all, Shi Qingxuan takes pride in being one of the most beautiful women in the continent, no—the world.

She looks to Xie Lian, vexed.

“…Did his mother get smothered to death by a pair of breasts before his very eyes when he was a child?!”

Hua Cheng lets out a snort that is poorly disguised as a cough, an Xie Lian sighs.

“No, no—but he’s always been like that, ever since we were kids…”

“I HAVE PERSONAL SPACE!” Feng Xin cries, now a solid five meters away from the Wind Master. “IT’S PERFECTLY NORMAL!”

“…He’s like you with spiders,” Shi Qingxuan mutters, crossing her arms.

Hua Cheng arches an eyebrow, looking down at him.

“Spiders?”

Xie Lian becomes flushed.

“…That has nothing to do with this,” he smiles awkwardly, “it’s nothing—!”

Shi Qingxuan’s voice cuts in, dry. “There’s one on your boot.”

“…eeEEAAAK!”

To which the crown prince promptly shrieks, leaping into the Ghost King’s arms.

“AND YOU’RE TELLING ME NOW?!”

He shouts, kicking his feet while he clings around Hua Cheng’s neck—

(The Ghost King caught him easily and without complaint.)

“…I lied,” the Wind Master mumbles, staring at her feet. “Nan Yang hurt my feelings…”

Xie Lian pauses, dangling in Hua Cheng’s grip.

“…Then why did you have to punish me for it?” He mutters, feeling somewhat betrayed.

Shi Qingxuan waves that off, not seeming particularly guilty.

“Are you really suffering, your highness?”

He gawks in her direction for a moment before scrambling back out of Hua Cheng’s arms.

Hua Cheng doesn’t seem nearly as happy to let him go as he was to catch him—but he allows the prince to slip free without complaint.

If Mu Qing were here, this is where he would likely make some sort of dry comment about how Hua Cheng didn’t seem to be suffering either.

But he was only willing to help on the premise that he wouldn’t have to deal with Feng Xin, because if he did—he would strangle him.

So, it was deemed better for Feng Xin to come, and Mu Qing to continue tending to Ming Yi in the heavens.

Point being: he isn’t here.

For some reason, in spite of his swelling jaw, Feng Xin wishes that he was.

But—now that their weapons are set aside, Xie Lina chooses to address something more pressing.

“Feng Xin, listen—you know the Night Touring Green Lantern, Qi Rong?”

His former guard frowns.

“…yeah? What about him?”

Xie Lian grimaces, “…It’s THAT Qi Rong.”

It takes a moment for him to put it together, and when he does, Feng Xin’s eyes widen. “…You can’t be serious.”

“I am.”

“What kind of dumbass uses his actual name for that sort of thing?!”

But neither of them really has to continue on that vein, because they both know:

Qi Rong is exactly the sort of person that would do that. Nothing surprising there.

“…This place was his lair.” Xie Lian sighs. “He ran off not long ago, with Lang Qianqiu going after him…”

“He is?” Shi Qingxuan perks up. He’s shifted back into his male form now, clearly not wanting to trigger Feng Xin’s phobia any further—or to take another blow to his ego. “I thought the prince was chasing after you, your highness. What happened?”

From behind Xie Lian, Hua Cheng shrugs. “He found out who the real culprit behind the gilded banquet was, and he took up pursuit.”

When Xie Lian doesn’t debate the claim, the other two Heavenly Officials practically sag with relief.

“Why didn’t you say so to begin with?!”

“…I didn’t know it was him,” Xie Lian admits. “San Lang was the one who figured it all out. That was why he brought us here.”

Feng Xin rubs his chin, processing that information, but Sh Qingxuan focuses on another matter.

“…Do the two of you know Qi Rong? You seem familiar.”

Both men grimace at the same time, and Xie Lian, with no small amount of shame, replies…

“…He’s my cousin,” the prince explains. “We both knew him well in our mortal lives.”

Shi Qingxuan’s eyes widen. “Really? Your actual cousin?”

When Xie Lian nods, the Wind Master hums, tapping his whisk against his chin.

“Your highness—you are such an interesting person,” Shi Qingxuan muses. “The martial gods of the south are your old pales, the martial god of the east is your former student…”

He glances around the cave, examining Qi Rong’s lair in earnest. “Night Touring Green Lantern is your cousin, and Crimson Rain Sought Flower is your…” He glances over his shoulder, looking from Feng Xin to Hua Cheng before settling on— “…sworn brother.”

That’s what he says, anyway—but there’s a suggestive undertone that makes it clear that isn’t what he means.

Hua Cheng raises an eyebrow while Xie Lian turns slightly pink, and Feng Xin, well—

He seems offended that a calamity would be his prince’s sworn brother.

“And you have me, the great Lord Wind Master, as your friend!” Shi Qingxuan concludes, doing a dramatic little twirl for effect. “What an amazing number of connections you have!”

Feng Xin, however, doesn’t seem to find that matter particularly important.

“If that’s true, your highness—you should report back to the Heavens and tell everyone. Not just to keep the emperor abreast of the matter, but to protect your reputation.”

Shi Qingxuan crosses his arms, sulking. “I’m surprised you can say the word ‘abreast’ without crying.”

Feng Xin gives him a sharp look. “Say another word about it, and I can have a talk with your older brother about what happened at the summer solstice celebration.”

Whatever that was, it must have been embarrassing—Xie Lian can feel Shi Qingxuan blushing from several feet away.

Hua Cheng interrupts their bickering, nonetheless.

“There’s no need for a facade, General Nan Yang. His highness isn’t a fool.”

(That’s debatable, but Xie Lian appreciates it anyway.)

“Why not just admit you’re rushing him back because you don’t want him in my company?”

Xie Lian frowns, looking in Feng Xin’s direction, shaking his head. “Oh, I…I’m sure that’s not what he means—”

“Because he doesn’t want you associating with the likes of me,” Hua Cheng concludes. “Isn’t that right, Nan Yang?”

Feng Xin’s reply is absolutely frigid.

“As long as you’re aware that he shouldn’t be socializing with ghosts and demons.”

Hua Cheng smiles, though he doesn’t immediately respond—and Xie Lian frowns, placing a hand on the ghost king’s arm.

“Well, I happen to like this ghost, Feng Xin. He’s my friend.”

He points a scolding finger in the general’s direction.

“And even if he wasn’t—you should never judge a man by what he is, but who he is. You know better.”

The martial god freezes, somewhat crestfallen, and Xie Lian turns, making his way toward the cavern entrance.

Hua Cheng smiles, clearly pleased as he follows after him, and Feng Xin seems trapped somewhere between shock and sheepishness.

“Is your highness returning—?”

“No,” Xie Lian shakes his head. “There were a number of Qi Rong’s minions left behind. Someone has to deal with them.”

“Oh, your highness,” Shi Qingxuan walks by his side, his tone bright and friendly, “Nan Yang can deal with them. They’re flat chested.”

Hua Cheng doesn’t try to mask his laughter this time, and Feng Xin glares.

“No, this is my cousin, I should deal with his mess…”

They step through the cave mouth, and Xie Lian feels a familiar hand on his arm. “There’s no need to bother with it, dianxia.”

Xie Lian frowns, about to argue, but—

“Did your just open your umbrella?”

He’s familiar with the sound by now.

“Mmm,” Hua Cheng agrees.

Xie Lian allows himself to be pulled underneath, listening to the latter of a sudden downpour.

And with it, he smells iron—blood.

Shi Qingxuan flicks his fan open, shielding his face as he watches the storm of core.

“You Ghost Kings really are amazing…” He muses.

“I always thought the Crimson Rain would be a hideous sight, but there’s something about it…”

“Are you actually admiring it?” Feng Xin hisses.

He was caught in the open during the downpour, now finding himself drenched in blood.

“You can’t deny—it’s rather impressive.”

Suddenly, Hua Cheng is beginning to find that the company the Wind Master keeps makes more and more sense.

“There,” he murmurs, snapping the umbrella shut. “It’s been dealt with.”

“…Thank you, San Lang.” Xie Lian frowns, guilty. “You’ve already done so much—”

“It’s nothing, gege.” The Ghost King shakes his head, giving Xie Lian’s shoulder one last Pat before taking a step back. “Go home and rest.”

Xie Lian can’t help but turn after him, sensing a portal opening.

“…Will you go back to Ghost City?”

“Yes,” Hua Cheng replies.

“I’m assuming you will be returning to the Heavenly Capital, but,” he turns his chin to look back at the god over his shoulder. “If you would like to return with me, you’re welcome.”

Xie Lian smiles, surprised by how…tempting that is.

“Next time,” he promises.

“I’ll help you clean up the mess I left…”

“Ren Song already took care of that,” Hua Cheng smiles. “All that’s left is cosmetic touches. But you can sit back and relax, certainly.”

Xie Lian arches an eyebrow, surprised by how swift that work would have been.

“…He really is an impressive young man,” the prince murmurs, reaching out to catch Hua Cheng’s sleeve, squeezing gently. “You’ve done very well with him, San Lang.”

Xie Lian says that because he means it, but also…

Remembering how the mention of Shuo’s brother seemed to weigh on him.

“…” Hua Cheng’s lips quirk at the corner. “Thank you, dianxia.”

“…I should be the one thanking you, after everything,” Xie Lian frets. “I—”

Fingertips brush over his forehead, and he falls silent.

There’s a tap at his forehead, so gentle, it gives the prince pause.

“You think too much,” Hua Cheng murmurs, stepping back. As the portal closes behind him, he adds—

“Just keep doing as you like.”

And with that, he’s gone.

Xie Lian stares after him, remembering.

That night, in Puqi shrine, when Banyue tried to apologize to the ghost king—Hua Cheng didn’t allow it.

‘I didn’t teach you magic for self defense.’

‘I taught you magic so you would have the freedom to make your own choices.’

He wasn’t just saying that, was he?

Shi Qingxuan takes some mercy on Feng Xin, using his powers to blow most of the blood off of him, leaving him only mildly less stained, and the process of ascending to the capital once more aftjally goes rather smoothly, even if Xie Lian finds his thoughts drifting frequently.

To Lang Qianqiu, Qi Rong, and all of the rest.

What it could mean. Why all of this is happening now. And San Lang…

He’s forced to give up that train of thought when they return to the Grand Martial Hall, and all eyes remain upon them.

“Xianle.” Jun Wu muses, calm.

“It’s good to see that you’re alright.”

Xie Lian winces, apologetic. “I’m sorry for worrying everyone…”

“Not your fault,” Shi Qingxuan assures him, patting his arm. “It’s not like you asked to get swept off like that.”

The god frowns, but bites his tongue.

“Was the crown prince injured?”

Mu Qing’s voice is crisp, business like, and Xie Lian shakes his head. “No, but thank you for asking.”

The martial god shrugs, crossing his arms, in too foul of a mood to allow himself to be seen as showing concern.

“It’s my job.”

“…Now seems like a good time to mention,” Ling Wen speaks up, her voice carrying through the hall, “General Tai Hua has made contact, stating that the Crown Prince of Xianle is not the culprit behind the Guilded Banquet. He’s in pursuit of the actual culprit now.”

It makes sense that he would report that in, but Xie Lian can’t say he enjoys the curious whispers echoing through the hall, half wishing he had taken up Hua Cheng on his offer to return to Ghost City.

“With that settled, I find there is a more pressing concern,” Jun Wu muses.

“How Crimson Rain was able to breach the capital so easily. Who was on security?”

“…Me.” Pei straightens from where he stands beside Ling Wen, his jaw locked. “It was my lapse in judgement that caused this.”

He bows his head to the emperor, apologetic.

From his other side, the Water Master rolls his eyes, examining his fingernails for non-existent dirt.

“Leaving an injured man in charge of security seems like a bigger lapse in judgement.”

Xie Lian listens carefully, surprised that the man who forced his brother to remain silent in their last meeting would speak with such candor now, but…

Shi Qingxuan did say that Pei Ming, the Water Master, and Ling Wen were close friends.

That much seems true now, especially.

Jun Wu arches an eyebrow, looking to Pei. “General Ming Guang, do you wish to be relieved of your duties until you have finished recovering?”

The martial god shakes his head, casting Shi Wudu a pointed look.

“No, your majesty. I have made no such request.”

“I see.” The emperor replies. “Ling Wen, have your people investigate the matter. If that’s all, we’ll reconvene when we know more.”

There’s a smattering of voices as martial and civil gods begin to leave the hall, but before Xie Lian can make to join them—

“Xianle, you stay.”

The prince comes to a halt, not terribly surprised by that, but—

“And you as well, Lord Water Master.”

That draws a note of surprise.

Xie Lian has never actually held a conversation with the god before. They have little to do with one another—

Why hold them both behind?

Both of the Heavenly Officials stand there in relative silence as the room clears out. Xie Lian, with his hands folded into the sleeves of his robes—curious, but relaxed.

Shi Wudu maintains a similar posture—but there’s a defiance to it.

His hip cocked, fanning himself, bored.

Xie Lian waits until the room seems relatively silent, murmuring, “Your majesty—there was something Xianle wished to discuss with you, but…it’s of a rather sensitive nature.”

Jun Wu considers that, resting his chin upon his hand.

“There is nothing you can say in front of me that you could not say in front of the Water Master,” the emperor replies calmly. “He has my complete confidence.”

Incredibly high praise, coming from the likes of him. Enough to even raise Xie Lian’s brow, but…

It can’t be helped.

“…Did you place Ming Yi in Paradise Manor as a spy?” He questions, keeping his head hung low.

Jun Wu’s response is swift, lacking in any remorse.

“The Water Master did, upon my orders.”

Shi Wudu remains silent, watching with a sharp gaze.

“I thought you might ask about it.”

Well, that certainly explains why he was kept behind.

Still, Xie Lian’s brows remain raised. “I wasn’t under the impression that Lord Water Master was involved with reconnaissance.”

“Let me say it like this,” Jun Wu muses, watching the two younger gods standing before him.

His expression is that of satisfaction.

“Xianle solves the mysteries that lie before us,” the Emperor explains, his eyes remaining on the younger of the two—

“…And Shi Wudu keeps our secrets.”

They make quite a pair, standing side by side.

Shi Wudu's gaze cuts over to Xie Lian, taking in the sight of him when compared to his own stature.

They're the same height, the same build. Though, due to his status as a martial god, the Water Master suspects Xianle's body is slightly more athletic than his own.

His hair is lighter in color, and styled differently--but similar in silken texture.

As for his eyes, that similarity would be impossible to discern--no one has seen what they actually look like in eight centuries.

But Shi Wudu is certain that Jun Wu remembers them well.

"If you should ever need the Water Master's assistance going forward," Jun Wu carries on, watching the two with satisfaction, "feel free to ask. He is at your disposal."

Xie Lian is somewhat sure that a proud god like Shi Wudu wouldn't be pleased to be at anyone's 'disposal.'

"...That's very kind," he mumbles with a polite smile, nodding in the Water Master's direction. "Of course, if you need my help for any reason, the same goes to you."

But when he returns his focus to Jun Wu, his expression is somewhat strained with worry.

But there's a response to his question that catches Shi Wudu's eye.

"...About San Lang," he starts, then corrects himself, "I mean--Hua Cheng, you know he didn't mean any harm, right?"

Jun Wu's eyes widen sharply.

He isn't a particularly expressive man. Not usually.

But now, his eyes are heated and narrowed, filled with emotions that Shi Wudu has never seen in the man's face. Not in his four centuries in the Heavens.

Anger. Pain. Resentment, and...to the Water Master's shock, a hint of guilt.

But he works to rein that in before he replies.

"...Of course, if Xianle thinks that, I trust his insight into Crimson Rain's intentions." The emperor replies with a smile that seems a trifle forced, not that the intended recipient would ever know it. "But you should be wary of him, your highness. And of Blackwater as well."

Shi Wudu watches without saying a word, as the Heavenly Emperor rises from his throne, moving forward to stand before the prince of Xianle.

“It takes an immense amount of pain and suffering to become a ghost king,” he explains quietly.

“For those two who have emerged from Mount Tonglu—it defines who they are.”

Xie Lian can’t speak to Blackwater’s state of mind, he knows nothing about the man—but it doesn’t line up with what he’s seen of Hua Cheng.

“…And what about the other Ghost King?” He questions.

“He didn’t come from Mount Tonglu, did he?”

It’s rare that Xie Lian can speak of Bai Wuxiang. The mere memory of the damage that was done makes it near unbearable.

It takes Jun Wu a moment to answer, and when he does—he does so quietly.

“Love can make a monster out of anyone.”

What an odd thing to say.

Though Xie Lian supposes that it’s true.

Love made a monster of him, once. Or rather—grief, the loss of it.

“You have had a trying few weeks,” the emperor sighs. “You should rest. The Palace of Xianle is being examined after the break in, but…”

He shrugs. “You’re welcome to reside in the Imperial Palace for as long as you need.”

“Oh,” Xie Lian’s eyes widen slightly. “That’s kind of you, my lord—but Xianle could never impose. Besides, this humble scrap god has matters to attend to in the human realm. But thank you.”

“Are you certain?” The Water Master speaks up, and there’s something about his tone that Xie Lian doesn’t have a word for, but…

It’s tense.

“No one would question you wanting a rest.” Then, his timbre becomes more recognizable—annoyed.

“Some of us are too foolish to rest when we’re told to.”

He must be referring to Pei Ming, in that case.

“Oh, I’ll rest,” Xie Lian assures him with a smile. “But I would rather do so in my own shrine. I’m sure you understand.”

The Water God lets out a soft ‘tch.’

“I don’t understand why you would want to slum it,” he mutters, snapping his fan open, holding it in front of his face. “But to each their own.”

His tone is condescending, of course—and it doesn’t betray the emotion lurking in his gaze:

Anxiety.

Xie Lian smiles serenely.

“Oh, I don’t think of it that way—and I should be thanking you,” he murmurs, bowing his head to the Water Master. “Your younger brother was invaluable during our mission, and was valiant in his attempt to rescue me—even if I didn’t need saving.”

Shi Wudu’s fan does not lower.

“…Thank him, then,” he mutters, his fingers tightening their grip around the spiritual tool, the whiteness of his knuckles betraying his uncaring attitude. “That has little to do with me.”

“…From the way Lord Wind Master described it, you were the one who raised him.”

Xie Lian shrugs. “Not to mention the one who taught him cultivation. He’s clearly a well brought up young man.”

“…” Jun Wu can’t see his expression, the fan hides that.

But it softens, ever so briefly.

Even the coldest, proudest of men have their points of weakness.

“Thank you.”

Xie Lian smiles in assent, bowing to them both. “I’ll be going, then—and thank you, your majesty, for hearing me out. I’ll be returning, now.”

He turns to make his way from the room, and the Water Master goes to follow, but…

“No,” Jun Wu murmurs softly. “Stay.”

Shi Wudu goes still, his shoulders hunching as Xie Lian makes his way out the doors of the Grand Martial Hall, watching as they slowly click shut.

Caging him in.

“…What is it?”

Jun Wu leans back in his throne, crossing his legs, leaning his chin against his palm once more.

“You know,” He muses, taking on a far more relaxed posture, “him, I understand.” He nods in the direction from which Xie Lian just disappeared. “Pei isn’t particularly complicated. Even the likes of Mu Qing and Ling Wen aren’t hard to figure out, if you watch closely. But you…”

Jun Wu arches an eyebrow. “You’re trying to pick a fight with me, and I’m curious as to why.”

Shi Wudu faces away from him, his posture tense.

“That scenario never ends well for you.”

It never has. The scars have healed, but the water god can still feel them.

Every day.

“…I don’t know,” he mutters, lowering his fan. “Poor impulse control, I suppose.”

“…Of all of the diseases I thought you might catch from that dog,” Jun Wu sighs, “Impulsivity was never one of them.”

The Water God’s empty hand balls up into a fist.

“Are you sure you aren’t the one that’s trying to pick a fight with me?” He asks quietly. “Or is that just petty jealousy?”

“Ah,” the emperor smiles, shaking his head with a fond chuckle.

After all these years, his Water Master can still make him laugh.

“Let’s be realistic, darling,” he rises to his feet. “It wouldn’t be a fight. At best, you could accuse me of toying with you. But I am curious…does he know?”

Shi Wudu won’t turn to look at him.

“…See, I was telling Xianle the truth,” the emperor smiles.

“So many secrets…”

Shi Wudu knows what he’s doing.

Antagonizing.

Because then, he’ll snap. Then, the emperor can pretend he was provoked.

He knows that, and still.

“You’re just angry because your precious Crown Prince of Xianle would prefer to sleep in a broken down shrine than your palace.”

That sends the smirk dropping from the Emperor’s face, and Shi Wudu—

He’s angry.

People call him proud. Condescending. The ‘Water Tyrant,’ but none of them ever know.

There is a constant, boiling anger underneath his skin.

One that stems from pain.

“And by the way,” he turns around, his eyes narrowed into a harsh glare, “What secret have I been keeping from him, exactly? That you have a thing for younger men who just so happen to idolize you?”

Jun Wu doesn’t react, but the rage in Shi Wudu’s chest is cresting.

For so many years, it felt as though he was lucky.

Lifted higher than the others. Favored. Like the weight of his sins came with an equal reward.

“How old was he when he ascended? Seventeen?” Shi Wudu’s tone turns cutting. “How old was I, when you came to me?”

And back then, it didn’t feel like something was happening to him.

Shi Wudu’s childhood ended when his parents died.

He saw it happen. Felt the last vestiges of naïveté stripped from his heart when he watched the life fade from them.

It was normal, after that, for him to have to do things that children shouldn’t.

To make decisions that should not have been up to him. Fight battles that he shouldn’t have had to. Face things he wasn’t prepared for.

Shi Wudu lived in a world of adults.

It wasn’t strange to him when Jun Wu treated him like one.

It never occurred to him that he was, in so many ways, still a child.

“You say that as though anything inappropriate happened at that time,” Jun Wu raises an eyebrow, but his tone was cold.

“I simply saved your brother’s life, as I recall.”

“No,” Shi Wudu shakes his head, his gaze narrowed. “/I/ saved my brother’s life. All you did was show me the method.”

And while nothing happened when Shi Wudu was seventeen…

It wasn’t long after that, when things began.

And Shi Wudu was so, so happy back then.

So proud, to have such an important man’s attention.

So determined to be worthy of it.

“And this anger against Pei…” The Water Master sighs, crossing his arms. “What’s the logic behind it? What, did you think we were lovers?”

“And are you two lovers now?” Jun Wu questions. “That would be somewhat contradictory, don’t you think? He’s also much older, and he had his eye on you the moment you ascended.”

Shi Wudu’s lips twitch, and in spite of everything—he’s pleased.

“Did he really?”

Jun Wu glares.

Of course, it was different.

Foremost, Shi Wudu didn’t notice. Pei was friendly, helpful—but more of a friend than a mentor.

When he did notice that the general was attracted to him, it was centuries later. Shi Wudu was a powerful god in the Heavenly Court in his own right.

And the reason that Shi Wudu noticed—that was because he had begun to feel that way too. Had begun watching his friend closer, to see if that same desire burned in his gaze.

Pei might be a flirt, but he never began making advances until Shi Wudu’s own glances began to linger.

It was slow, and easy. Then quick and terrifying, but he never once wanted it to end.

And that isn’t what he has with the emperor.

“If you wanted to have me in public, or take me as a consort, you could have done that years ago.” The Water Master points out, his tone frigid.

“I would have agreed to it.”

In an instant.

In the beginning, Shi Wudu was enchanted by him. Dazzled by the power. The attention. Craving stability.

“But you didn’t—probably because, among other things, people would have raised eyebrows at it.” The Water Master shrugs.

“And now you act like jilted lover.”

“Oh, come now,” Jun Wu’s eyes flash, and his tone turns somewhat condescending. “Is that what this is? Resentful that I took you to bed without asking your hand in marriage? Is that what it takes to keep your legs shut to other men?”

The mere implication behind his words makes Shi Wudu flinch with annoyance.

“As much as you might want to,” Jun Wu steps down from the dais, his footsteps echoing throughout the hall. “You can’t revise the past, just because it doesn’t suit your narrative. You know that.”

He stops in front of the water god, reaching out to touch his cheek, watching those sapphire eyes glare back at him hatefully.

So, so beautiful.

If Jun Wu had a weakness for anything, it would be a person’s eyes.

They tell so much, and hide so little.

Shi Wudu hadn’t wanted marriage back then. The emperor knows, even if he never said so.

Because he didn’t want to give anyone reason to think he had risen by Jun Wu’s favoritism alone.

And he only brings it up now as a means of justify an affair with…

Pei, of all people.

“…You know,” he murmurs, his eyes fixed upon Shi Wudu’s, “I normally don’t mind it when you challenge me. I often like it. You know that.”

So few are proud enough, egotistical enough, to raise their voice to Jun Wu. There’s something enjoyable, exciting, even, about arguing.

“…But I wasn’t in the mood for that today,” Jun Wu concludes. “You knew that.”

Shi Wudu would beg to differ. Forcing him to sit through that conversation with the Prince of Xianle felt like being antagonized. Like Jun Wu wanted him to lash out—

“Now, my mood has changed.”

TW// ⚠️ THIS SCENE CONTAINS REFERENCES TO / DEPICTIONS OF ABUSE AND SEXUAL ASSAULT. CONTINUE WITH CAUTION. ⚠️

“I think…” His fingertips lift from his cheek, and Shi Wudu feels the back of his neck go cold. A feeling that spreads down his limbs, his chest, until his body feels almost numb. Detached from him. “That I’d like you to be quiet, now.”

Shi Wudu opens his mouth, planning on making some sort of sarcastic response, but…

A single sound doesn’t come out.

Just a weak, hoarse sound. Too faint to even be a whimper.

His vocal cords are locked, frozen in place by magic.

“Always acting like you’re trapped…”

Jun Wu mutters, glaring down at him. “Like I’m some hideous monster forcing a life of power and privilege down your throat.”

The younger god glares back at him, fighting against the spell—to no avail.

“You have never come close to seeing me angry. Did you know that?”

He slowly circles the god, his eyes narrowed.

“And after the things you’ve done…”

Jun Wu’s voice echoes in his ears, weighing Shi Wudu down. Making his shoulders tremble.

“How dare you act like a victim?”

He steps close to the Water God’s back, leaning down to whisper in his ear.

“Why don’t you pray to him, hmm?” The Emperor murmurs, his breath fanning across the side of his neck. “I haven’t stopped you. Go on. Ask him to help you.”

But he knows—Shi Wudu won’t.

Even if he was willing to put Pei in further danger by pitting him against the Emperor. Even if he thought it was possible that Pei might win—

That would require admitting to the things he has been centuries fighting to hide.

Fingers brush his hair back over his shoulder, and when lips press against his throat, the Water God cringes, wishing desperately that someone might walk back through that door. That someone might see them like this, but—

“I have never forced anything on you.”

Jun Wu murmurs against his skin. The touch is gentle, but it rings with a subtle violence.

“But clearly, you need to learn the difference.”

Shi Wudu’s eyes widen, and his stomach plummets.

“Start walking.”

He makes no effort to move his legs—but still, they obey.

The spell is powerful, locking him in like a marionette.

Jun Wu orders him to follow him to the imperial residence, and he does. Demands that the Water Master strip himself bare, and he is obeyed.

In some ways, it doesn’t feel that different from how it’s always been.

All the emperor has done is strip away the illusion of choice.

This feels like a more naked version of events. As thought they’ve finally stopped pretending that one of them wanted this.

Ever since he was a child, Shi Wudu has been good at going somewhere far away in his head.

At pretending that certain things weren’t happening to him. They were happening to someone else, and he was far away. He was safe. And it didn’t hurt.

He’s dragged back when Jun Wu orders him to stop with the tears, and the Water God’s eyes go dry in response.

He’s dragged back when he’s ordered to move positions again.

When he’s told to smile. To be grateful for it.

With each forced return to reality, his mind scrambles to get away. To become blissfully blank, until it’s over.

And it is over, eventually.

With the emperor sleeping, sprawled across his bed—having taken what he wanted.

With the water master curled on his side, arms cradling himself like tape cordoning off the scene of a crime.

Eyes staring at the wall, blank and hollow.

There are things no one tells you.

That sometimes, there’s no one to pray to.

No one to ask for help, when the one who is supposed to answer those prayers is the one that’s hurting you.

He sits up slowly, his body numb, robotic.

It hurts, but that feels removed from him. Distant, somehow.

Hair slips over his shoulder in an ebony curtain, obscuring the blood that lays beneath.

For a moment, he contemplates returning his own palace—

But he can’t.

Shi Qingxuan would notice something was wrong.

For the same reasons, Pei’s home isn’t an option either.

There’s nowhere to go.

Something glints in the moonlight, catching his eye.

The Water Master’s eye follows it, finding something sitting on top of the cabinet against the far wall.

Something all too familiar, by now.

A dagger.

“…”

Shi Wudu’s head tilts to the side.

His footsteps pad silently across marble floors, so accustomed to this sort of pain, he doesn’t limp anymore.

The steel is black. The engraving intricate. A dragon curled around it’s hilt.

And, etched into the blade—

‘The God Slayer.’

He lifts it up, fingers steady.

It’s heavier than it looks, sitting solidly against his palm.

Shi Wudu lifts it before his face, dragging his fingertip along the edge, a small cut forming on the pad of his index finger, watches the blood bead up with quiet fascination.

It doesn’t heal, dripping down the side of his finger, one drop landing on the floor beneath his feet.

Slowly, his attention turns back to the emperor, sleeping just halfway across the room.

And for a moment, it seems so easy.

Just to walk a few feet over.

To lean over him.

To stare at the pale column of his throat, fingers tightening around the grip of the dagger, and imagine it gushing with red.

Imagining what it would be like, for all of it to be over.

How his life might be different, if he wasn’t constantly forced to dance in the palm of someone else’s hand.

Then, imagining becomes yearning, and it grows inside of him, swelling until he can’t stand it anymore.

Painfully aware of the limits of his chains.

And he wants out.

It’s so close.

So painfully close, that he’ll find himself screaming with frustration later. Remembering the way the blade kissed the emperor’s skin. That he was one flick of the wrist away from freedom, but—

But then, those eyes snapped open.

Jun Wu doesn’t even flinch.

“Oh?” He arches an eyebrow, surveying the Water Master with a curious gaze. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

Shi Wudu grits his teeth, his wrist trembling slightly, but he forces himself to remain steady. “You know I do.”

“To kill someone, yes…” The emperor smiles faintly.

“But you’ll never give up all of this.”

For a moment, Shi Wudu thinks he must be referring to the twist, garbled mess of whatever it is that lies between them, but…

Jun Wu’s expression sharpens.

“Go ahead,” he snaps his fingers. “I won’t stop you.”

At first, Shi Wudu thinks Jun Wu means to allow him to slit his throat, but—

All the sudden, a wave of exhaustion sweeps over him—and it feels like a heavy weight has suddenly landed on the back of his neck, drawing him down.

“Didn’t you hear me?” Jun Wu murmurs. “Go on.”

Then, there’s another snap of his fingers—and Shi Wudu’s wrist becomes so heavy, it slams down to the floor, dragging him down with it.

“Y—You…” The Water Master struggles, trying to regain his bearings, “What are you—?!”

But when he looks down, he falls silent.

Sitting there, around his wrist, is the familiar pattern of a cursed shackle.

“That’s two…” Jun Wu muses, looking him over. “How about a third?”

Of course, the Water God opens his mouth to protest, but…

/Snap!/

Just like that—-the world goes dark.

“Go on.” Jun Wu repeats the word, his tone cold as he watches the Water Master blink, disoriented as he struggles to regain his bearings. “You want out?”

He must, given how frantic his movements are.

“You know you don’t need me to take them off for you. You know how.”

That reminder makes Shi Wudu go still, staring blindly into the dark.

He’s never felt more alone, than in this moment. Never felt more helpless.

It’s hard now, to imagine living that way for eight centuries.

Still, he doesn’t say a word, he just…

Does the harder thing.

“…I’m sorry,” he croaks, his shoulders slumped, head bowed with…submission.

An agonizing thing, for a man so prideful.

“Will you be trying that again?”

The shackles tighten before he can answer, making him sink to the floor with a pained cry.

“N-No…” He gasps.

Jun Wu is sitting up now, bare chested, hair slipping over his shoulder as he smirks down at Shi Wudu, the moonlight illuminating one half of his face.

The other remains in darkness.

“You could get rid of them yourself,” he reminds him once again, lips twisting into a smile.

“But you won’t do that, will you?”

It’s never a real option.

“You won’t give up the power and privileges I have given you, will you?”

Jun Wu can’t put cursed shackles on a mortal, or a ghost.

Only a god.

And the easiest way to escape them?

Renouncing that godhood.

It’s a cage to which Shi Wudu holds the key.

He doubts Jun Wu has made the same thing clear to Xianle. The prince seems like the type who would have relinquished his godhood long ago, if he knew that he could.

But for Shi Wudu, it isn’t a real option.

He can’t leave.

He could never leave Shi Qingxuan behind.

And if he did, he would have to explain.

The Water Master would rather die, than force his brother to live with the truth.

Would rather suffer, day in and day out.

Jun Wu wasn’t wrong.

Shi Wudu keeps their secrets.

But no matter how much power he has—

Living like this will never be a privilege.

/Snap!/

The weight disappears from his wrist and neck, light creeping back into his eyes, and he trembles, gasping, limp on the floor.

The emperor pours himself a glass of wine.

“I’ve kept every promise I ever made to you,” He muses. “Haven’t I?”

The Water Master doesn’t reply, curling up on the floor. Doesn’t move.

“Your brother has lived the last four hundred years in luxury and happiness, has he not? Your reputation has been without blemish.”

Luxury. Reputation.

Those things used to matter so much to him.

“And I think now, after that little outburst,” Jun Wu tilts his head, sipping his wine. “I’m starting to understand where all this is coming from.”

Shi Wudu very much doubts that.

“Do you know,” He sits back against his headboard, staring out across the darkness of the room. “I’ve always believed that fate can connect us through our lifetimes.”

His wine has a bittersweet taste.

“Don’t you?”

The water master feels muddled.

Lifetimes?

“I’ve been around for so long—longer than any of you realize—I’ve actually encountered quite a few souls that I used to know. Over and over again,” he muses, twisting the cup between his fingers, watching the water slosh back and forth.

It shifts back and forth between wine at his command. Easily transmuted.

Light then dark. Bitter, then sweet. Burning, then tasteless.

“It takes some time, to learn to recognize the similarities. They’re subtle. And of course—it’s impossible for you to remember, but I do.”

If you were to ask Jun Wu—he would tell you that some things about a soul never change.

He is fairly certain that the Prince of Xianle, for example, would have been stubborn. In every single lifetime.

“I suppose it makes sense that fate would bring you back to me…”

His eyes drift down to where the Water Master lies on the floor in a heap, his hair covering his face in a dark, silken curtain.

Obscuring his eyes. The masculine shape of his shoulders.

Now, it’s easy to imagine a different face. Different eyes. A different body.

“…I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Shi Wudu croaks, his voice hoarse.

“Of course you wouldn’t,” the emperor agrees. “And that makes it all the more ironic.”

And it makes his cruelty to the younger god all the more justifiable.

It makes even more sense now, that he would try to kill Jun Wu with that blade.

The blade that she forged, so many years ago.

“But you know, I did keep something,” the emperor tilts his head, lowering his glass from his lips. “Open that chest over there and take a look.”

The Water Master doesn’t move at first, so the emperor gives him a gentle nod in the right direction. “Go on.”

“…” Slowly, reluctantly, Shi Wudu rises to his feet, legs wobbling as he walks to the corner of the room, where an ancient, stone chest remains, lifting the lid.

There are many things in the chest that seem utterly foreign to him. Weapons. Ancient artifacts that he can’t even begin to recognize.

What seems to be a child’s toy, a stuffed fox.

And sitting on top of it all, is a wooden box. One inlaid with gold.

An beneath the glass—

A butterfly.

Silver. Wings tattered from so many years having gone by, despite careful preservation.

A beautiful display. But there’s something hideously sad about the sight of it.

It feels like a reflection of Shi Wudu’s own situation.

“That was the first give I gave you.”

The emperor explains.

The first of many.

And in the end, she turned every single one of them into a source of pain.

Into a curse.

But when Shi Wudu stares down at that box, he feels something very different.

That Jun Wu is wrong.

Somewhere in the cracks and crevices of his soul, Shi Wudu knows that he isn’t the soul who was given this box.

It feels utterly unfamiliar to him. Cold, poisonous underneath his hands.

It’s impossible to know one’s past lives, of course. That isn’t how it works.

But there are brief moments of familiarity. Where you think you might have felt something before. Done something. Met someone.

Shi Wudu has felt that. But never with Jun Wu, and certainly not with this box.

But he supposes that might be fair.

After all, this all happened because of his own choices.

His decision to switch his brother’s fate with that of someone else.

It makes sense, in the end, that he should be punished for someone else’s choices.

That he should be switched, in a sense, with someone else.

“Now,” Jun Wu sets his wine glass down, watching Shi Wudu’s back.

The bruises he left there.

“Come back to bed.”

For a moment, the god doesn’t respond—and the emperor smirks.

“You are far too intelligent to be such a slow learner, my dear.”

The choice is clear.

It isn’t up to him.

None of this has ever been up to him.

But it’s better to go willingly than it is to be forced.

So, he does.

Climbs back into those sheets. Into those arms.

Lets him take what he wants with no struggle.

And Jun Wu has always been a taker.

He takes, and he takes, and he takes.

Until everything feels numb.

Inside and out. Like Shi Wudu is a tapestry that has been pulled apart at the seams, until only a pile of threads remain.

When the emperor sleeps again, he doesn’t dare reach for that blade a second time.

He doesn’t dare go home.

Doesn’t dare seek out the one place where he has always felt safe.

He stands in the streets of the Heavenly Capital, empty in the night. Robes rumpled. Hair loose.

And it all feels so ridiculous.

Even among gods, he is powerful.

His wealth is unmatched.

Few people in all three realms have ever risen so far as he has.

But now, at his lowest—

He has nowhere to go.

He finds himself leaning against one of the pillars that lines the street, examining his wrist.

Remembering the shackle that sat there.

His lips twist into a bitter smile.

He, amongst the most powerful gods, in that moment, feels the desire to pray to one of the weakest.

And yet—

‘Do you think I would ever treat Xianle the way that I treat you?’

That’s the misunderstanding in all of it.

‘Do you think he would ever allow himself to be in this position?’

Shi Wudu has always been far weaker than him.

But in this contemplative silence, considering praying—

Shi Wudu actually hears one.

A prayer.

It’s been many years since he listened to one personally.

His deputies handle that now. It’s rare that Shi Wudu’s head is ever quiet enough to hear, but—

‘L-Lord Water Master!’ His throat tightens. ‘Please, help!’

When has he ever been able to help anyone? What has he ever done, besides causing damage?

Besides breaking things?

What good could has he ever done?

‘I don’t know if you can hear me,’ the voice pleads. That of a young man, no older than a teenager. ‘I don’t—I don’t have any money to offer, but my little sister—she’s—!’

The Water god pauses, listening closely.

‘I can’t stop them!’

In the mortal realm below, a young man struggles.

Wrenching at the arms holding him back, trying to get free.

To get to her.

“L-LET HER GO!” He cries.

“G-gege!” The young girl whimpers, her eyes wide with terror. “H-Help me!”

They booked passage on this vessel weeks ago.

To escape the economic downturn in the north. The chaos that has been brewing for years now.

The plan was to go South, so he could cultivate under the clan in Yunmeng. It would be quieter there. A better place to raise his little sister.

But now, it seems they won’t make it.

The fall of Yong’an led to lawlessness across the plains.

The seas were no exception.

They had barely been on voyage for more than a day before their vessel was taken by pirates.

They already killed the ship’s captain and crew, along with most of the other passengers.

But, as foul men often do—they left the little girl alive.

The only girl on the entire ship.

And now, her brother can do nothing but watch. Fighting as hard as he can, while the others hold him down.

“GEGE!”

“I—” He chokes, thrashing as the rain begins to fall down.

A storm is rolling in rather suddenly, it seems. It was perfectly clear only a few moments ago.

“I’M HERE, I WON’T—” He bites one of the hands holding him down, fighting with all of his might. “I WON’T LET THEM—!”

But he knows, in his heart, that he can’t stop it.

He’s prayed to every god he can think of, but he has nothing to offer—and he doubts any of them will answer. Not in time to help them.

One of the men holding him down snickers, glancing up at the brewing clouds in the sky, the sea slowly beginning to churn underneath them.

It’s funny now, how unpredictable the weather on the ocean can be. Storms of violent nature brewing up—often out of nowhere.

“Your gege is brave,” he comments, smashing the young man’s face down against the planks of the ship deck. “But weak. There’s nothing he can—”

/BOOM!/

The lightning strike so sudden, so powerful, it knocks many of the nearby men off of their feet. And with them, go the ones who were holding the young girl down.

“The hell kind of storm is th—?”

BOOM!

The entire sky flashes white, crackling with power.

Now, there’s a figure.

Standing in the center of the deck, long, dark hair whipping around in the breeze.

“S…Say,” one of the pirates mumbles, leaning close to his companion. “W-Where did he come from?”

The stranger’s face tilts up, sapphire eyes sparking with every flash of lightning.

Normally, it’s not an odd thing for a stranger to appear in the middle of such a confrontation, drawn in by the noise.

It is odd, however, when you’re on a ship.

“W-Who—?”

A voice cuts clearly through the sound of the storm, low and cold.

“You dare attack my worshippers?”

Scattered, frightened whispers echo among the group of pirates.

A god?

A god is here?

For what? These insignificant children?

And who—?

While they seem confused, the little girl is not. Sitting up, her tears mixing with the rain.

“L-Lord Water Master!” She croaks.

The men around stir, fright starting to permeate the are.

It’s—

It’s the Water Master?

The little girl scrambles to his side, hiding behind his robes, trembling like a leaf.

“I said,” the figure repeats, “you dare to harm my worshippers?”

“We…my lord, we didn’t know—!”

/CRASH!/

Another bolt of lightning strikes the water nearby, briefly blinding them, sending the men holding the little girl’s brother to the ground stumbling.

Now that he’s free, he immediately rushes to her side, holding her in his arms.

“Gege!”

Shi Wudu turns his head, looking over the port side bow.

They’re a few hundred meters off the shore. He can see a human city, twinkling in the distance.

“…Get off of the ship.”

It’s a quiet demand, not spoken in anger, and—

It’s directed at the children.

The elder of the two stares up at the water god, his mouth hanging open with shock.

“I…She can’t swim, we’ll—!”

“You’ll be alright.” The Water Master murmurs, not casting so much as a glance their way. “Get off of the ship.”

The teenager swallows thickly.

The sea is churning violently below them, but…

There really is no other choice.

Cautiously, with his sister in his arms, he makes his way to the side of the ship, taking one more anxious glance.

‘You’ll be alright.’

He bites his lip, and his little sister tugs at his sleeve.

“We’ll be okay, gege.” She whispers, still shaken and pale from what happened before, but—

A god is here to protect them.

They slip over the side, and instead of plunging underneath the waves—they land gently on top of them.

The water feels as solid as stone.

And when the next wave rises, it carries the two on top of it, swiftly carrying them back to shore.

“M-My lord,” one of the pirates whispers, dropping to his knees. “W-We had no idea—”

“Of course you didn’t.”

Shi Wudu tilts his face back, looking up into the sky.

That’s what humans do, when they think no one is watching.

When they think there are no consequences for the destruction they cause.

When they know their prey is too weak to fight back.

They unleash the very worst of themselves.

The lack of consequences is their justification.

It turns exploiting the weak into a fact of life. Into justice.

And in this moment, he wonders—

How many children have prayed for salvation, going unheard?

Not realizing that those same cruel men often ascend as gods too.

“We—we didn’t mean—!”

/BOOM!/

Thunder crashes again, almost like it could shatter the sky above.

Shi Wudu doesn’t care what they meant. Doesn’t care what they thought.

For a moment, the pirates think the sky has gone completely black, swallowing up all light, but…

It’s water.

A wall of water, rushing towards them faster than the helmsman can respond.

A wave so tall, it shrouds the moon and stars above, even the lightning flashes can no longer be seen.

There are screams of course, pleas for mercy.

Prayers that go pointedly unanswered.

Shi Wudu has sunk many ships before.

He doesn’t even flinch when the wave slams into him, obliterating the ship—and the mortals remaining inside. Reducing it to nothing but splinters.

Swallowing the remains, dragging them down, down, down, lost beneath the sea.

The wave dissolves back into the ocean itself, leaving one figure standing on it’s surface.

‘Gege?’

He can hear him there, in their private communication array, his tone slightly strained with worry.

‘Where are you?’

The Water Master sinks to his knees, his head in his hands.

The storm rages around him with no sign of letting up anytime soon.

If anything, it intensifies into a small hurricane, reflecting the raging inside.

Can’t go home.

Can’t get out.

Can’t tell the truth.

/CRASH!/

From the shore, two children watch the lightning flash.

Shi Wudu clutches in head in his hands, wishing that the pirates would stop screaming and begging.

“LET ME GO!”

They’re dead already, why won’t they just stop—?

“WHY WON’T YOU JUST LET ME GO?!”

Oh.

That’s him.

He’s screaming.

The children can’t see the god who saved them, shrouded by the storm.

The raging winds and crashing waves that push him further and further out from everyone else. Cold words and arrogant stares given physical shape and form.

‘Shi Wudu keeps our secrets.’

That wasn’t true.

Shi Wudu keeps Jun Wu’s secrets.

And now, alone in the storm, he doesn’t know what he’s protecting anymore.

Not himself. Not Shi Qingxuan.

But by the time he sees the bars of his cage clearly, by the time he finds the key—It will be too late.

And the Water Master will drown.

When Xie Lian leaves the Heavens, he’s fortunate to avoid hitting any more clouds. It would seem that, even without his sight—it’s really more about controlled posture than it is about aim.

Still, he doesn’t land where he intended.

Rather than the hills below Puqi Shrine…

He finds himself standing on a mountain.

A familiar one at that.

It’s been over eight centuries, but he knows it by the smell of the trees. The taste of the air.

The occasional broken swing he finds on the path.

Mount Taicang.

It’s been so many years, since he returned here.

He used to come more, early on in his banishment. Less, as time went on.

Now, he doesn’t think he’s returned since he burst from that coffin two centuries ago.

The path is familiar—but overgrown.

He finds himself forced to use fangxin to cut branches and brambles free, making his way to the top of the hillside.

Part of him is glad not to see the ruins where his greatest temple once stood.

Sitting at the peak of ‘the Summit of the Crown Prince.’

Not because he hasn’t accepted his fall in rank in position. Heavens no, Xie Lian accepted that long ago.

It’s hard, because he remembers how proud his father looked, when the temple was first built.

And it’s that pride turning to disappointment that hurt him the most.

There’s a well that sits among the ruins and rubble. Long since dried up and abandoned. Hardly something worth noticing—

To those unaware of what lies beneath, anyway.

It’s a simple matter to throw one’s legs over the side and slip down to the tunnel below.

His boots land with a heavy thud against the mud, barely sinking down as he reaches out, palms pressing flat against the bricks making up the side of the well, fumbling until he finds—

Ah, there, the handle.

It pulls open with a heavy screech, dust drifting through the dark.

If anyone actually knew that there was a mausoleum for the royal family of Xianle beneath the hillside of Mount Taicang, it would have been robbed long ago.

After all, diamonds and other jewels still glitter across the ceiling.

The monarchs who are buried here still wear the silken ceremonial robes that they did in life.

It feels strange sometimes, being here. As though he’s treading the echoes of a life that no longer belongs to him.

The God Pleasing Crown Prince feels like a fictional character.

This beautiful, shining ideal that people look up to, but…

It’s not real. It’s not him.

And when he comes to the end of the royal tomb, the resting place for the last King and Queen of Xianle…

The god sinks to the ground, pulling his knees up against his chest.

“…Hi, Mom.” He mumbles, resting his chin against his knees. “Hi, Dad.”

Sometimes, in the dark, it still feels like they’re hanging over his head.

“…I’m sorry I didn’t bring anything,” He mumbles, hugging his legs a little tighter. “And I’m sorry it’s been so long.”

Really, it might be true that most sons don’t outlive their parents by as many years as he has, but really? Three whole centuries?

It’s disgraceful.

“…I ascended again,” he always leads with the good news. He knows they would have liked that. “Third time’s the charm, right?”

He bites his lip, tilting his head down until his cheek is pressing against his knees, and he shrinks into an even smaller ball.

“I’m doing much better now,” he adds, his voice small. “I’m eating plenty, so don’t worry. I saw Feng Xin and Mu Qing, by the way—they’re doing well.”

That would make his mother happy, he knows.

She was always so happy, seeing the three of them together. Even towards the end, she…

Xie Lian takes a deep breath.

“…And I saw Qi Rong again,” he mumbles.

He’s already come here and confessed to what he did before.

There’s no need to beg for forgiveness now. And even if there was—he wouldn’t actually be sorry.

“…He’s hurt a lot of people,” the prince admits, staring in the direction of his mother’s grave. “And I’m…not sure how I should deal with him. I don’t…know what to do.”

It’s not like they’ve ever answered him. Their souls moved on long ago. They don’t hear his words now.

But still, there’s comfort in coming here, and talking through the things that he doesn’t understand. Pretending that someone is listening.

Like praying, but more sincere.

It’s been so long since someone was willing to just sit around and listen to him talk—this feels as good as any other heart to heart.

That is, until he hears something.

Quiet sniffling.

Not from him, but…

From inside his mother’s grave.

“…” His heart stutters. “…Mom?”

For a moment, some paranoid part of him wonders, but…

The closer he listens, his heart sinks.

There’s a heartbeat. Quiet, but quick—terrified, like that of a small rabbit. And the tone of the breaths and sniffles—

They’re that of a child.

But what is a living, breathing child doing in his mother’s grave?

Are there grave robbers here? But if there were, why bring a little child with them?

Then, from the corner of his eye—he sees something that explains everything.

A glowing aura. Acidic green.

…Him.

“…You aren’t welcome here.”

Xie Lian’s voice is low. Frigid.

This is a place for members of the Xianle royal family.

A family that Qi Rong no longer has the right to call himself a member of.

“Why would you even come?”

There’s a pause, then a snide reply—

“Paying my respects to the man and woman who raised me, of course.”

Xie Lian makes a low noise of disgust in the back of his throat.

‘Raised’ is an exaggeration.

They fed him. Clothed him. Housed him. He was treated well.

But they weren’t his parents.

“…And you brought a human child here to do that?” The prince mutters, caught somewhere between exasperation and exhaustion. “What, was your plan to eat him?”

“…Maybe,” Qi Rong drawls. It’s not his usual voice. More like that of the human that he’s wearing as a skin.

“Kids are useful, y’know?”

“And you left it in a coffin,” Xie Lian retorts, his voice ringing with disgust. “Did you just decide at some point that you were such failure at being good, that you would just overachieve in the opposite direction?”

There’s a shocked pause—and finally, a slightly manic giggle.

“You know,” his cousin grins, watching as Xie Lian moves to lift the lid of the coffin so he can pull the child out, “I suppose I should feel flattered that no one else gets to see this side of you. Just your cousin!”

And of course, Xie Lian knows what side he means.

The part of him that’s still capable of being condescending, angry, and cruel.

Though he doesn’t know if it counts as cruelty, when Qi Rong isn’t capable of the same thoughts and feelings of an actual human. He never has been.

But when he lifts the child out of his mother’s grave, he feels that side boiling up to the surface. Coming just as quickly as it hides away.

Because—

There was too much free space inside the coffin, for a child to be able to hide successfully.

And at first, Xie Lian can feel the truth, creeping up on him. The slow, dawning realization. Like a prickle on the back of his neck.

But he doesn’t want to believe it. No matter how horrible Qi Rong might be, he—

Xie Lian doesn’t want to think he would do that.

The first time he asks, his voice is calm.

“…Where is my mother’s body?”

There’s silence at first. That, Xie Lian can live with.

What he can’t stand is the jeering, sadistic little giggle that slips out.

“…WHAT DID YOU DO WITH HER BODY?!”

The child in his arms flinches and cringes with shock—and Xie Lian can barely bring himself to care, setting him down before he turns on Qi Rong, trembling with rage.

“Oh, there’s no need to be so dramatic! Auntie is still there, just…in a different form!” He cackles.

Xie Lian doesn’t want to know what he means. has a sick, twisting feeling in his gut, but he doesn’t want to confirm it.

Still, he has to.

And when he reaches into the coffin, feeling the pile of ash underneath his fingertips, all he can think to say is—

“She was kind to you.”

It’s true.

The Queen of Xianle probably showed Qi Rong more kindness than the boy ever received in his life. Never raised her voice to him, or treated him unfairly.

And this was how he repaid her.

“…But you remember what you said, don’t you?” Qi Rong hums.

He’s standing against the wall, watching every flash of pain and rage in Xie Lian’s expression with glimmering satisfaction.

“Back when you killed me?”

Xie Lian bows his head, and he grits his teeth.

“You said she didn’t love me. That her kindness was given out of guilt.”

Qi Rong taps his thumb against his chin. “Shouldn’t I hate her, then, for treating me so falsely?”

But Xie Lian knows that isn’t why.

Qi Rong doesn’t hate Xie Lian’s mother. And even if he did, he wouldn’t have done this to hurt her.

Because she’s gone.

No, he…

He did this to hurt him.

Because he didn’t want Xie Lian to even have a body to pay respects to.

“…What I said about your father before,” Xie Lian mutters, not looking up from the grave. “That really got to you, didn’t it?”

Qi Rong pales, then glares. “You think—?”

/BAM!/

The punch comes so swiftly, the ghost doesn’t even have time to flinch before he’s slammed against the wall.

And this time, in the mortal shell he’s using—blood begins to pour down his chin.

“You’re too weak to hurt me directly,” Xie Lian snarls, holding him down.

He always has been.

Like a jackal that will only attack a calf when it’s been separated from the heard.

Weak, and cowardly.

“So, you did this, right?”

Mutilated a corpse. That of his own aunt. And over what, indignation?

As if he has a right to be indignant.

What a joke.

Xie Lian pulls his fist back, striking him over and over again. Until Qi Rong is laughing with childish glee as he slumps back, and Xie Lian hears the child from before crying out with terror.

“D-DON’T HURT MY DAD!” He cries.

Then, the choice of a human skin makes sense.

It makes sense, as much as it hurts.

(And it hurts so much, it feels like he can hardly breathe.)

Still, he laughs.

No matter how many times Xie Lian hits him. No matter how much anger he puts behind the blows.

“S-See what I mean?!”

“DAD!”

He can’t stop. He won’t, he—

“YOU’VE ALWAYS BEEN LIKE THIS!” Qi Rong cackles, blood pouring from his chin, staining his teeth. “EVEN WHEN EVERYONE THOUGHT YOU WERE PERFECT, YOU WERE ALWAYS LIKE THIS! I SAW YOU CLEARLY!”

His teeth come together with a click, and…

Xie Lian can’t listen to it anymore.

The hand gripping Fangxin rises up, and the laughter reaches a fever pitch.

“HA! HAHA! TOLD YOU SO, TOLD YOU SO!! COUSIN CROWN PRINCE IS A MONSTER, JUST LIKE ME!”

He won’t.

“DON’T, MY DAD—!”

He won’t.

“/ENOUGH!/”

Xie Lian knows that the person Qi Rong admired once, the figure he loathes now with so much passion—

None of that was real. It was all fake. Shrouded, pretending to be perfection.

But—

‘When did I ever say that you had to be perfect?’

/CLANG!/

Finally, the blade comes down.

But memory is a funny thing.

Something that you often learn not to trust, or find less reliable on the present, simply blaming your own lack of recall.

But sometimes, memories are far more honest than you might think.

Sometimes, within memory—

We find who we really are.

⏳ 824 YEARS PRIOR ⌛️

Long ago, on the central plains, there was a Kingdom known as Xianle.

Vast in land and resources—with four great blessings:

Beautiful women. Vibrant music and literature. Wealth beyond compare, and most of all…

Their Crown Prince, who pleased the Gods.

But before his ascension and the war that followed, before the infamous parade on martial Avenue…

Around the feasting hall, the nobility raises their glasses, cheering over the sound of the music.

“TO THE CROWN PRINCE!”

…he was a child, just as any other.

Young lords and ladies dance throughout the palace, fireworks shooting off overhead.

After all, their queen had not only safely given birth to a healthy baby—but also a male heir.

No small task.

A string of failed pregnancies had haunted the Royal Family of Xianle for years.

Much of it was blamed on the King marrying an older woman, the sister of a childhood friend—reducing the years in which they could safely have children.

But now, the Royal bloodline is secure—and the kingdom rejoices.

The Queen sits fair above the feast, on the Royal dais.

Reclined on a chaise sofa—in theory, so she could watch the celebrations below, but…

She can’t seem to take her eyes off of the child in her arms.

Propped up against her knees, eyes wide as they take in the sound and the spectacle.

“Should he really be so quiet?”

She murmurs, pushing his hair away from his face, gently tucking soft brown curls behind his ear.

The Queen had only thought the newborn would be able to tolerate such a party for a few minutes, at best—but he’s been content to be among all of the sound and commotion for hours.

The King smiles, pressing a kiss against her forehead. “He’s happy to be with his mother,” he assures her. “As am I, always.”

His wife bites back a smile, her tone slightly scolding. “You flirt, here? In front of all of your subjects—!”

She’s cut off with a squeak when he kisses her, softly, sweetly.

“With my Queen, yes.”

She smiles into it, her heart softening.

“With the mother of my child, always.”

Mother.

Her chest warms as he pulls away, and she looks down at that little face once more.

She’s a mother, now.

“…My sweet little Xie Lian,” she croons, leaning down to press her lips against his forehead, holding him close.

“Welcome,” she whispers as the little boy coos in response, pressing close to his mother’s warmth. “We’re so happy to finally meet you.”

The King watches his family fondly, not caring for the feasting or the celebration. Only for her, and the child in her arms.

But still—Xie Lian is not a child like any other.

He is the Crown Prince of Xianle.

And as such, there are traditions to be followed.

Representatives from around the continent, showing gifts from kingdoms far and wide to congratulate Xianle on it’s new heir.

Trays laden with gold. Yards upon yards of silk. The finest of horses. Rare treasures from far and wide—

But the man at the end of the line has no gift.

And he’s a slightly peculiar fellow.

Dressed in white robes, holding himself with an air that seems far beyond his years—he doesn’t seem a day over twenty—and with ivory hair, trailing down his back.

One of the guards steps before the royal family as he approaches.

“Hold it!”

The Queen smiles, shaking her head. “Relax, General Feng. Allow the poor man to introduce himself before you’re up in arms…”

The general frowns, somewhat reluctant—but takes a step back under his Queen’s command.

“Approach.”

The young man smiles, grateful. “Thank you.”

When he reaches the Royal dais, he bows deeply, hands folded before him.

“It has long been tradition for chief cultivator from one of the local sects to give a newborn prince his first fortune reading,” the ivory haired man explains. “I have come to offer my services.”

The king is familiar with such a tradition—after all, a cultivator from the local sect told his fortune after his own birth, so he nods. “Very well, go on.”

The cultivator bows his head, approaching the Queen’s side.

The child in her arm is slightly small, born a little early.

But there’s already a mess of hair upon this head, a warm shade of brown, fluffy in texture, falling before his eyes.

And when Mei Nianqing bends before the child, examining his small palm, gaining the details of his birth—

He smiles.

The Queen watches him, cautious.

“…Is it good?”

“Well,” the cultivator looks up. “He was born under a cursed star, but,” he holds one finger up before the child’s parents can react, “this is not a reason to panic.”

The king stares, his brow furrowed with worry. “…Forgive me, priest—but it sounds worrisome.”

“No, no…” Mei Nianqing shakes his head. “To be born under a cursed star only means that one’s fate will have great impact on the world. This doesn’t necessarily mean it will be good, or bad.”

“Oh,” the Queen lets out a shaky breath of relief, holding Xie Lian closer.

“Is that all it says?”

“…He will have to work very hard,” the cultivator cautions them both, “and it will not be easy—but he will shine brighter than any other.”

That small, flushed little face cracks with a tired yawn, pressing his face into his mother’s dress.

“…It won’t be too hard, will it?” The King smiles, laughing with a hint of nerves. “He’s only three days old, priest.”

“…I see many trials,” the cultivator admits. “But the signs say he will endure them all, and rise past it. For he has the greatest blessing of them all.”

The King and Queen raise their eyebrows in unison, and Mei Nianqing smiles.

“Your son will be adored like no other. Praised from one end of the horizon to the next. But he will have one great love of his life—one that will carry him through any hardship.”

After all, no matter how far we fall—it is the ones who love us most who catch us, in the end.

“…Well,” the Queen smiles, pressing her forehead to her son’s. “I can’t wait to meet this great love of yours, my darling.”

There’s shouts for another round of song—more fireworks.

The kingdom rejoices from one end to the other—and that night, they light countless incense sticks in the temple of the god the King and Queen prayed to for a successful pregnancy.

The Heavenly Emperor, Jun Wu.

Now, with eager excitement, they watch their little prince grow.

But…

“YOUR HIGHNESS!”

Excited peals of laughter echo through the imperial gardens.

“SLOW DOWN!”

…sometimes, growing up is quite a process.

“Just a little further!” The seven year old exclaims, stretching his fingertips up high overhead. “I’ve almost got it!”

He makes one well placed jump, stretching out as much as he can, but…

The butterfly flutters just out of reach, darting back over the palace walls.

And the prince, naturally, goes tumbling back down to the ground in a tangle of hair and silk robes.

“OW!”

He cries out, rolling over, pulling up his robes to reveal a skinned knee.

Maybe, some day, the prince of Xianle will be a great warrior, and a scratch like this will be forgettable.

But for now, his lip wobbles, and his eyes well up with tears.

“MOM!”

The Queen sighs.

“My darling, what have I told you about jumping like that?” She murmurs, leaving the table set up by the koi pond to hurry to his side, checking his knee. “You’re lucky it’s just a scratch!”

Her son pouts, eyes pricking with tears. “But I just wanted to catch it!”

The Queen sits back, exasperated. “Catch what, my love?”

“The butterfly!” Xie Lian exclaims, staring at the palace walls reproachfully. “I just wanted to say hi!”

The Queen thinks that over, kissing the cut on his knee to mollify him.

“…Well, butterflies belong in the sky with their mothers,” she explains, leaning up to kiss his nose, “and my baby belongs down here, with me!”

That finally draws a happy giggle from him, banishing all thoughts of skinned knees and butterflies, cuddling closer in her arms.

“…And,” she adds, and from her tone, Xie Lian’s giggling has already stopped, “it’s time to go inside anyway.”

“…Mom!” The prince whines, pulling back. “I already finished my lessons for the day!”

“You did,” she agrees, “and I let you play—”

“Only for TWO HOURS—!”

The Queen can’t help but laugh, pulling her son to his feet as she leads him back inside. “You say that like it’s no time at all!”

Xie Lian’s pout deepens as he drags his feet. “It went by so fast!”

“Well,” she smiles, ushering him down the hall. “It’s a big day.”

The prince huffs, his hair sticking out in every direction. “But my birthday already happened!”

“Xie Lian,” his mother shakes her head, “that isn’t the only important day of the year!”

“I know!” He blinks. “But it isn’t the mid autumn festival either!”

“Silly boy…”

She sighs. “Have you already forgotten about the ceremony?”

Xie Lian pauses awkwardly, a sheepish grin spreading across his face as he shakes his head. “Haha…nope! Definitely not! I practiced!”

The Queen shakes her head.

Heavens, what is she going to do with him?

“But, you went and got yourself all messy, which means…”

She trails off, and her son groans miserably.

It means he’ll have to be bathed all over again.

Xie Lian doesn’t actually mind looking fancy. He enjoys it—

It’s the process of getting there that he despises.

Being shoved (gently placed) into a tub of freezing (carefully heated) stinking (scented with lavender oil) water, scrubbed raw (with the softest of sponges), and forced to sit perfectly still while the servants fuss over his hair.

The entire thing takes an hour!

But by the end of it he is freshly cleaned, dressed, hair pulled up into a gleaming ponytail, topped off with a head piece of gold and pearl, holding onto his mother’s hand as she leads him back down the palace corridors.

“What if I don’t like him?” The little prince mumbles.

“You will,” his mother assures him. “You like everyone.”

Xie Lian pouts. That isn’t necessarily true.

He doesn’t like the royal gardener at all. He’s too tall, and his mustache is scary.

“What if he doesn’t like me?”

Before the Queen can answer, Xie Lian is swooped up.

“Everyone likes you,” his father assures him, settling the prince upon his shoulders. “How could they not?”

“Darling!” The Queen scolds her husband as her son giggles happily, placing his hands on top of the King’s head to steady himself. “We just got him cleaned up!”

“And he’s still perfect, my love, don’t worry,” the king assures her, holding the prince up on his shoulders as they stride into the throne room.

Inside, a rather formal assembly is waiting for them.

The entire imperial guard, along with the commander of the armed forces.

He stands at the very front, his hands resting on a young man’s shoulders.

“Stand straight, boy.”

And of course, the child does, his expression horribly serious, because he knows—this is the most important day of his life.

The first day of the only job that he will ever have.

The door opens, and the entire world seems to shrink down to one small moment.

When the King and Queen enter the room, a boy striding between them.

Dressed in robes of white, red, and gold. Glittering jewels in his hair—and a smile that shines like the sun.

“Attention!” The guard is called to a salute, and the boy in front moves in perfect tandem with them, his eyes forward, even if he’s slightly pale from the nerves.

“Now,” the king kneels down behind his son, hands on his shoulders, “you remember General Feng, don’t you?”

Xie Lian nods, his eyes slightly wide.

The captain of the armed forces has always been a rather intimidating figure. Bulky and mustached.

But he isn’t as scary as the gardener. He gave Xie Lian a piggy back ride once.

“Hello…”

The General bows deeply, kneeling before him.

“It’s an honor to see you again, your highness—may I present my son, Feng Xin.”

The boy before the general is taller, which is to be expected—he’s two years the prince’s senior. With sun kissed skin and dark hair, pulled up neatly.

And his expression—

It’s so serious.

“As of this day forth, he is to be your personal guard and sword brother, until his final breath.”

The crown prince nods, rocking on his heels slightly—until he notices everyone staring, and he jumps to attention, clearing his throat.

“Do you, ah…”

He holds out his hand, trying his best to look rather serious. “Do you promise to do all that stuff?” His mother sends him a disapproving look, and he tacks on—

“Protect me forever, and everything?”

(She’s certain now that he didn’t practice his lines at all.)

Regardless of the slightly bungled delivery, Feng Xin sinks to one knee—

(Unlike his prince, he was practicing all morning.)

—takes his hand, and kisses it. He was personally a little embarrassed when his father told him that he had to—but rules are rules.

“I promise!”

Xie Lian smiles, standing still, being very graceful and dignified (for a whole five seconds) before the boy rises back up to his feet, and then he’s back to being a small ball of barely contained energy, thrumming with excitement, having realized something—

For the first time in his life…

“Wanna see my room?”

He gets to be around someone his own age.

Well. Not exactly his age, Feng Xin is nearly ten. But close enough!

The newly vested guard hesitates, looking to his father, who simply shrugs.

“If dianxia likes, you may go.”

Xie Lian beams, turning and running off down the hallway, and after a moment of being too stunned to react, Feng Xin chases after him.

“Wait up, your highness!”

They’ll spend the afternoon with Xie Lian going through his things, going through all the toys they can now share.

Then, he realizes that might sound a little babyish. After all, Feng Xin is an older kid. Maybe he’ll think this sort of thing is stupid, but—

He listens intently, trailing after Xie Lian like a newfound shadow.

It’s never lonely anymore.

Far away, in a kingdom to the North, a far less heartwarming scene is unfolding.

/CRASH!/

A golden chalice crashes to the ground, spilling wine across the rug—ancient, expensive, and this stain won’t come out.

“Qing Yuan! Control yourself!”

“HOW CAN YOU ASK ME THAT NOW?!”

The young woman paces the room like a wounded animal, dark hair loose around her shoulders.

A gorgeous young lady. Desired across the city for her poise, her mind, and her talents.

Now, she’s gone pale, deep circles edged beneath her eyes.

She looks to her parents, wrathful.

“I hope you’re both happy,” she hisses, her hands trembling by her sides. “I married that PIG for you, and now, the minute he gets back from Xianle, he’s going to…”

She trails off, covering her mouth with horror. She can’t look at the crib in the corner. Can’t bear the thought.

“Darling,” her mother frowns, fanning herself awkwardly. “I think that’s rather uncharitable of you, to assume he would reject the child…”

Of course, it’s easy for her to say.

She’s wearing the earrings Qing Yuan’s husband paid for. The carriage they arrived here in was a gift

Of course, she’ll give him the most generous interpretation. He provides the lifestyle of luxury and comfort that her family has always craved.

An old, near forgotten line of nobility, desperate to feel the trappings of wealth once more.

“He will,” Qing Yuan mutters.

“Because he is greedy, and stupid—and he is cruel. He’ll take one look at the boy, decide he’s deformed, and—he’ll…”

He won’t want to live with the shame.

“Funny…” Qing Yuan’s sister speaks up now, leaning over the child’s crib.

He’s an interesting little fellow.

Even with the red eye—which she admits, is unsettling to look at—he has a cute face. Chubby cheeks and all that. Inky blank hair sticking in every direction.

“…I would have thought he would be more upset about the fact that you gave birth to a fully formed child after…”

She pauses, tilting her head. “How long has it been since your wedding? Six months?”

If that.

Qing Yuan flushes, but she doesn’t say a word.

It doesn’t help matters that the child looks nothing like either one of them—other than having his mother’s hair. That’s it.

“Furthermore, wasn’t he born under the star of solitude?” Her sister muses, reaching down to poke at the baby’s cheek.

He giggles, unaware that he’s the subject of such strife, reaching to grasp at her hand with his little fingers.

“…What of it?”

“I thought, for a child to be born under such a star…it meant his parents would have to love one another deeply,” she muses, glancing up at Qing Yuan, eyebrows raised. “Am I to take this to mean that you’re actually in love with…how did you say it? Your stupid, cruel husband.”

Qing Yuan doesn’t answer, and her father lets out a heavy, exasperated sigh.

“Why didn’t you say something before we finalized the match?”

“…Because I didn’t know,” she mutters, wrapping her arms around herself. “I wasn’t sure, not until…”

She gave birth so early.

To a strong, healthy child.

“…And what of the child’s actual father?” Her mother groans, picking at the pearls around her neck, already using a tone of distaste when she references the matter. “Could he be of some use? Or do you not know who it could be?”

Qing Yuan’s lips turn up into a wry, slightly bitter smile.

“You know, with such a warm, supportive mother figure like yourself, it’s a shock that I was so desperate to find affection in others.” She murmurs, turning back to the liquor cabinet. “A real fucking head scratcher.”

“Don’t blame your mother for your mistakes—”

“I am telling you,” their daughter glares, gripping the edge of the table tightly, “that my son, your GRANDSON, is in danger. And all you care about is calling me a whore?! Ha!” She pours herself another glass of wine. “Unbelievable.”

“That’s why she asked you about the boy’s father,” her own father intercedes with a frown. “Do you think he could help?”

“…” Qing Yuan is quiet for a moment, staring down into her wine glass. “…No,” she mutters, downing it in two swallows. “I can’t ask him.”

“What, is he really that much of a cad?” Her sister mutters, still watching the little boy play with her finger in his fist, blinking up at her curiously. “You think he wouldn’t help the child?”

“…He would,” Qing Yuan shakes her head. “He’s an honorable man. But…”

“But?”

His help would come with a price.

Involving her child in a world that she wants to keep him away from.

“…I can’t ask him,” she repeats, shaking her head.

“Well, that limits our options.” Her mother frowns. “Couldn’t we just…give him to a well to-do family for adoption?”

“No,” Qing Yuan shakes her head vehemently. “We can’t do that, either.”

“But—”

“You screamed, when you looked at him in his crib,” she mutters, holding her glass tightly. “My husband is likely to have him thrown from a window on sight. I can’t trust anyone else to…”

She’s the child’s mother. She loves him. She’ll protect him.

Qing Yuan can’t trust anyone else to do that. The world is cruel. And—they’ll only ever see him as one thing. One deformity.

Maybe the affair was a mistake—but she won’t abandon him.

Not now, not ever.

They eventually come to the settlement: they’ll tell her husband that the baby came early, only to be stillborn.

Her son will be taken into her parents household as a ward. To be raised in relative comfort, invisible. There’s even discussion of sending him to Xianle, but…

“I knew you were going to run,” her sister makes the comment later, when she finds Qing Yuan throwing together a pack later that night, working under candlelight. “Where will you go?”

“…Mother and father were going to send him away the moment they had the chance,” she mutters.

“I’ll make my own way.”

After all—she’ll have to lay low for a few years. She has no doubt her husband will make a show of looking for her—he loathes to be humiliated.

There’s a noble family near Qinghe. The eldest son is…open minded, and a friend.

He won’t care that one of his concubines has a child. And while her son grows, she can fade into the background.

It’s not a terrible plan. If she’s lucky—she can make it work.

“…I always did admire that about you, you know.” Her sister sighs, glancing over at her nephew.

“So self possessed. Independent. Determined to do everything on your own. I was jealous of you, really.”

Of course, she could hardly be jealous of her now, in this predicament.

She understands.

“But you were also far too proud,” her sister concludes.

“If you hadn’t kept it a secret for so long, I could have helped you, jiejie.”

“…Yes,” Qing Yuan mutters, pulling her pack together. “And your comments earlier were extremely helpful.”

“I was angry with you for not at least telling me,” the younger admits.

“And mother and father were never going to believe that your husband could kill an infant without adequate knowledge. But…” She glances down at the boy one more time. “Do you think…the eye is some sort of curse? Are you…in more danger than you think?”

“…No.”

Qing Yuan lifts the back over her shoulder, shaking her head. “It’s no curse.”

She walks to the side of her crib, reaching down to touch the side of his face.

She believes, with all of her heart, that the perceived deformity her son was born with will be a blessing, in the end.

That’s how it’s always been in many of the fairytales she read as a child.

That one’s greatest trials can become their greatest strengths.

“…Can you tell me one more thing? Before you go.”

Qing Yuan nods, however hesitantly.

“…The boy’s father, who is he, really?”

The older sister pauses, her shoulders slightly hunched.

And it’s impossible now, to fathom which one of them that she’s trying to protect.

“…His name is Hong,” she mutters.

“The father?”

“My son,” Qing Yuan mutters. “His father was a soldier. And he loved me.”

The way she says it—

“…Is he dead, jiejie?”

She’s quiet, still so tense.

“…Yes,” she lies, and it comes from her so smoothly, so easily. “Before the wedding. That’s why…I wasn’t sure.”

Part of being prideful is being a good liar. It’s the best armor there is.

And in her case—he may as well be dead.

That’s part of why they have to leave.

Because if he finds her, he’ll find the boy. And if he learns the truth…

Qing Yuan knows he’ll step forward to claim him. And bring Hong into a world that…

…is no place for a child.

She leaves her home for the last time that night. Leaves no note nor letter of goodbye.

Turns away from the life of power and privilege that she could have had—with a certainty ringing in her heart.

That this choice is the right one.

That her Hong’er is special.

And that someday, if given the chance—he could change the world.

She slips out on horseback that night, her child clutched in her arms. Looking for safety in the great cities of the north.

But unlike before, when she would set off on a long journey…

Qing Yuan does not pray.

The kingdom of Xianle flourishes in the six years that follow.

And with it, their crown prince continues to grow.

From a charming, overeager little seven year old, to the very beginnings of a teenager.

And throughout those years, his dearest friend was by his side.

Running through the palace grounds. Sitting through lessons. Staying up in the night, listening as his prince read him stories from his scrolls.

Training with him, day in and day out, growing in tandem.

Well, except…

Feng Xin has the tendency to grow a bit faster than him.

Which is getting harder and harder not to notice, the older the prince gets.

And he wants to be a good friend. To congratulate his guard on his tallness and broadness, and all that. Like it’s some sort of achievement, but…

“Your highness?” Feng Xin blinks, “Are you alright?”

He’s bent over the river, hair down, for once—wet from where he was splashing water over his face.

Xie Lian supposes it’s fair, that he’d be more grown up. He’s two and a half years older. Xie Lian…

His eyes are stuck on one drop of water slipping down his bicep.

It slips down tanned skin, disappearing into the dip of his elbow.

Xie Lian…you see, he—

“Xie Lian?”

The prince glances up, startled, “Hmm?”

Feng Xin tilts his head to the side, raising an eyebrow. “Was training too vigorous today? You seem distracted.”

Oh.

“…I’m fine!” He agrees quickly. After all, if it’s not too rigorous for Feng Xin, then it’s not too vigorous for him. “I just got lost in my thoughts, that’s all!”

He glances back up the hill towards the palace, shoulders drooping with a sigh.

“…We should probably go back.”

These days, between lessons, training, and everything else—he doesn’t get nearly as much time out here as he used to.

Actually having fun, that is.

Feng Xin nods, shaking his hair out like a wet dog before pulling it back up into a messy bun on top of his head. “Of course.”

While they’re walking up towards the palace, a very different conversation is happening within.

Between the King of Xianle, as well as his Chief Guoshi.

“I don’t mean to say that any harm should befall the boy,” Mei Nianqing mutters, keeping his voice low. “But this…”

The King seems tired, glancing over the railing, down to the palace grounds below.

“What would you have me do, Guoshi?” He mutters. “Send him off to god knows where, not knowing if he’ll keep quiet? Or have a child killed?”

“Neither,” his advisor shakes his head.

"But he's been working in the kitchens, hasn't he? Why not keep him there? Why..." Mei Nianqing glances around, lower his voice. "Why bring him so close to the Crown Prince? Is that not reckless?"

The King of Xianle grows quiet, watching the grass sway in the breeze.

"...You see this ring?" He murmurs, lifting his right hand into the air. A gold circlet glimmers on his pinky, a ruby set into the face. "It means absolutely nothing to me. I have a dozen just like it."

The words sound callous, unfeeling, but...

"But to a peasant, this is more than most could achieve in an entire lifetime." He shrugs. "If I were to give it away to someone on the street--their grandchildren could reap the benefits from it. Do you see what I'm getting at, Guoshi?"

"...I'm not sure I do," he admits.

"If I keep him in the kitchens, I know where he is, yes." The king agrees. "But that doesn't provide much more than that. However, if he's a royal attendant..." He glances over at Mei Nianqing. "He can support a family on those wages. He has many sisters I hear, and no father."

Finally, the Guoshi seems to understand what the king is getting at.

"...And in that position, he has no reason to speak about what happened."

If he did, he would only have everything to lose.

"Precisely. And he isn't a threat to my son, if anything..." The king shrugs.

"I think it could be a good experience for Xie Lian. Being around someone his own age, who is..."

He almost says 'normal,' and realizes that word couldn't be applied here.

"...working class," he concludes."

Mei Nianqing doubts that the exposure to a peasant is necessary.

After all, the prince has always displayed a high amount of empathy, and in spite of his station...

He's quite egalitarian.

The move seems like one that stems more from self preservation, but he relents. "...Fine," he agrees, "I will defer to his highness's wishes."

"Good."

The king smiles, even if it wasn't up to Mei Nianqing in the end.

After all, this is, at it's core...a family matter.

"Now, if you don't mind..."

It's a polite way of being dismissed, and the Guoshi takes it gracefully, bowing his head.

"Of course, your majesty."

He leaves the room. Not part of the official royal residence, but rather a tertiary meeting space. Somewhere where trade ministers or generals might meet, but the royal family is rarely seen there.

As such, the young man who is ushered inside freezes upon seeing who awaits him.

He’s thin, even for his age. Naturally sun kissed from performing Labor in the fields over prior summers—but his complexion is rather pale now, seeing the king’s face.

“…I’m s-sorry, your majesty,” he bows his head, nearly bending in half as he scrambles back towards the door.

“W-wrong room—”

“No,” the king corrects him, watching the young man with a grim expression. “I summoned you here, Mu Qing.”

The boy freezes before he can reach the door, still bowing low, his shoulders trembling.

“…I haven’t said anything,” he whispers, visibly frightened.

“I know,” the king steps forward, his expression grim as he takes in the boy’s stature. The way he instinctively averts his gaze. How eager he seems to remain close to the door. “You aren’t in trouble.”

The child doesn’t say a word, remaining tight lipped, and he…

It feels utterly bizarre to the King, taking time out of his day to meet with the son of a woodworker and a housemaid. Normally, this is something he would delegate. It seems like madness that he hasn’t, but…

Some issues are so sensitive, they have to be handled personally.

Still, he can’t help but ask…

“How old are you now, anyway?”

Mu Qing doesn’t look up, his heart rattling in his chest.

“…Thirteen next month, your majesty,” he whispers hoarsely.

The King rubs the bridge of his nose with the heel of his palm.

…He really is Xie Lian’s age.

Good fucking heavens, it makes one slightly ill to think about.

“…Well, it just so happens, my son turned thirteen recently.” The king murmurs, forcing his tone to remain light. “At that age, he’ll no longer have a nursemaid or a governess, but rather…a personal attendant.”

The responsibilities are mostly things that the boy already familiar with doing. The hairdressing and the tailoring will be a learned skill, but he’s at an age where he can pick it up quite easily.

Still…

The king doesn’t personally hand out promotions to his servants.

Such things normally come down from higher level attendants and housekeepers. For the king to do this himself, means…

“…Is this a bribe?” Mu Qing questions cautiously, “Because I-I really wasn’t going to—”

“I know,” the king repeats himself calmly.

“But think of it like this—I am aware, as are the others involved, that your family has…suffered significantly from past events. And that…I bear some responsibility for that.”

Mu Qing sneaks a glance at him through his lashes, lips trembling with uncertainty.

“Think of this…as an opportunity,” the king explains. “You’ll be with my son, day in and day out. You’ll be compensated well for your work. Receive the same education as he does. There’s been discussion of him studying cultivation on Mount Taicang…” He trails off.

“And no one will ever ask you for something inappropriate,” he adds quietly, watching the way the word ‘inappropriate’ makes the boy shrink even further. “Rather than thinking of it as a bribe, let’s just say I have a desire to…make things right, as they stand.”

The young man doesn’t argue with him, but the king knows—he’s too cynical to trust that this is purely being done out of kindness. And he isn’t wrong.

“…It’s in both of our best interests if you are close to this family. Loyal to this family.” The king’s gaze bears down on him.

“I don’t want the guilt of having to harm a child to keep this quiet. Accept the kindness. Make the most of it. And, if you’re smart—”

(And they both know, the boy is highly intelligent. He wouldn’t have survived if he wasn’t.)

“—you’ll forget the entire thing and start over.”

That’s where he loses him, in part.

Mu Qing can make the most of it. He can start over. There isn’t much that he can’t do, with regards to his family.

That’s why he’s here to begin with.

But he can’t forget. As badly as he wishes he could. Or pretends that he has.

It also isn’t entirely a kindness.

There are opportunities, like the king said. The pay is substantial, but…

It would also mean living in the palace full time. Away from his mother. His sisters.

Not that he has a choice, but it’s a terrifying prospect for a boy so young.

“…Thank you, your majesty,” he mumbles, not lifting his head. “I’ll make the most of it.”

Of course, he doesn’t have to threaten Mu Qing. He already did.

Saying that he didn’t /want/ to have the guilt of harming a child.

But he /could/, if he had to.

The option is there.

One wrong step. One secret slipped loose. The mere perception that he’s taking advantage of the royal family’s kindness, and it could all come crashing down.

The king absolves his guilt, the secrets are kept…

And Mu Qing keeps the house of cards tilting just so.

When Xie Lian arrives back in the great hall for the afternoon, he half expects his Guoshi to jump down his throat for not returning earlier to begin his meditations for the evenings, but…

There’s no such scolding to be found.

Instead, his mother is waiting for him.

“Ah, darling,” she smiles, walking over to meet her son in the entrance, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “How was training? Oh, Feng Xin,” she glances over at the guard, “Are you alright? You look like you’ve fallen in the river…”

The teenager perks up, shaking his head. “Oh, no, your majesty—I just fell in some mud during training and had to wash up after.”

He says he fell, but Xie Lian actually struck him with more force than he meant to during sparring, sending Feng Xin tumbling.

(Which he apologized for, naturally—even if feng Xin insisted he’d done nothing wrong.)

“I see…” The Queen sighs, turning back to Xie Lian. “Well—we have news. I’m sure you remember how your Uncle passed, recently…”

It wasn’t particularly sad news for anyone, but he nods.

“…Well, my sister and your cousin, Qi Rong, have come to live with us here—in the palace. Isn’t that nice?”

The prince doesn’t react immediately, his face frozen as he tries to school it into something like excitement.

Xie Lian’s mother adores her sister, he knows that.

He also knows that his Aunt has been in declining health, since the death of her husband…so, it’s reasonable to have her here.

But Qi Rong…

Look, Xie Lian knows he’s supposed to be nice to him. To care about him. He’s family, after all.

But something about the younger boy…

…Makes Xie Lian’s skin crawl.

But, before he can put too much thought into it, she adds—

“Oh, and I almost forgot—your personal attendant was selected for you today. M…M…Oh heavens, they just told me his name—”

“Mu Qing, your grace,” a voice pipes up quietly.

Xie Lian follows the sound of that voice, and standing behind his mother is…

A boy around his own age. Taller, much more thin, with long, raven hair pulled up into a high, neat ponytail.

“…Oh,” the prince smiles, taking a step closer. “Hello then—it’s very nice to meet you.”

The servant nods politely, keeping his head bowed low, arms clasped behind his back—and Xie Lian sends Feng Xin a look.

“Aren’t you going to say hello? He’s going to be with us everyday.”

“Oh,” the older boy blinks, nodding in Mu Qing’s direction. “…Nice to meet you.”

The raven haired boy glances up, his eyes lingering on Feng Xin’s face for a moment, eyes widening briefly before he looks down again “…I promise I’ll work hard.”

The prince nods amicably, and…

“…Wanna see my room?”

…Some thing never change.

For years, it was just the Crown Prince and Feng Xin. Rising in the morning together. Training together. Xie Lian sitting through his lessons while his guard waited dutifully in the corner.

And in some ways, things don’t change, but…

In other ways, they do.

“Good morning, your highness,” the door to Xie Lian’s bedroom always opens promptly, half an hour past sunrise—with the prince’s attendant already deep into the work day, a breakfast tray balanced on one hip, drawing the curtains with the other. “Did you sleep well?”

Xie Lian groans softly, pressing his face into his pillows, pulling the sheets over his head. “‘M having…a good dream, Mu Qing…g…gimme a second…”

The servant arches an eyebrow, setting the tray down on the bedside table with such practiced grace, it doesn’t make a sound.

“What about, dianxia?”

“Mmmmmm…” he sighs with a yawn. “Hand…some…butterflies…”

Mu Qing cracks a small smile, alone in the dim lighting of the Royal apartments.

He’s always out of it when he first wakes up.

“W…wake up Feng Xin first, I’m…m’ gettin’ there…”

“…” Mu Qing rolls his eyes, but there’s little bite to it. “Yes, dianxia.”

There’s a bit of a routine to get through, anyway—he doesn’t mind.

First, setting out the prince’s clothes for the day. Checking to see that his boots are properly shined.

He always buffs them after the prince is off to bed for the evening—but sometimes, Xie Lian sneaks off to the kitchens for a snack during the night, and Mu Qing returns to find them scuffed.

Last night was one of those nights, it seems.

The attendant sighs, starting again.

Then, he deciphers Xie Lian’s incoherent grunts to figure out which blades the prince wants to use during training today, sending word to one of the palace runners so the armorer can have the proper weapons brought up.

(Xie Lian is mumbling something about a mountain, now.)

One of the better parts of the morning, of course, is waking the guard hound that sleeps on a tasseled silk cushion by the food of The prince’s bed.

“…Morning, JunJie,” the teenager whispers, kneeling down to scratch him behind the ears until his tail thumps tiredly.

“Did he keep you up last night?” The hound lets out a soft ‘boof!’ Of agreement, snuffling at Mu Qing’s palm, looking for a treat.

(He sneaks a piece of meat from the prince’s tray for him, knowing that Xie Lian won’t notice or care—he hardly eats it anyway.)

And then, comes the worst part of Mu Qing’s morning. Obviously.

Going to the kennel and waking up the dog.

The ugly, smelly one.

There’s a door to the room adjoining to the prince’s bedchamber, and the moment Mu Qing opens it, he stumbles.

He catches himself silently, of course—not even crying out when he twists his ankle.

Better than making a scene, anyway.

And when he sees the culprit, a stray boot strewn across the floor—he glares.

“…”

…/THUNK!/

The boot rebounds heavily off of the side of Feng Xin’s sleeping head, making him sit up with a startled squawk, scrambling for his sword before he goes tumbling to the floor in a heap.

/CRASH!/

“…” Mu Qing leans against the door, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow.

“Well, I can’t speak for the crown prince, but I feel safer already,” he drawls, watching as Feng Xin sits up, rubbing the side of his head with a glare.

“Shut the fuck up, why don’t you?!” The teenager glares, and Mu Qing shrugs.

“Put on a shirt, no one wants to see that.”

Who wants to see someone’s pectorals when they’re in the middle of their workday, anyone?

Not him. Certainly not him.

Before Feng Xin can muster a response, the servant turns away, ponytail whipping around behind him as he returns to the prince’s chambers.

“W…” Xie Lian is sitting up by now, his hair sticking up in every which direction, “What was that?”

“Oh…” Mu Qing shrugs, walking over to move the tray from his bedside table, to setting it on the prince’s lap, “it would seem Feng Xin fell out of bed, your highness.”

“Oh…” Xie Lian yawns, already more than familiar with this part of his routine, scooting forward, picking at his breakfast while Mu Qing slides in behind him with a brush and comb, working out the newly formed knots in his hair. “Is he alright?”

“Oh, I think so.”

By the time Feng Xin does arrive, slightly concussed, his robes for the day thrown about him loosely, he finds the two sitting together like that—Xie Lian, picking at a bowl of grapes while Mu Qing kneels on the bed behind him, working his hair up into a perfect ponytail.

“Oh, Feng Xin!” Xie Lian brightens, smiling over at him sleepily. “You’re up!”

And just like that his irritation seems somewhat secondary.

“Good Morning, your highness.”

His own tray is left on the far cabinet—but he takes it without complaint.

Because sure, he loathes dealing with Mu Qing in the mornings. And the evenings. And meal times.

But, there is one point in the day where he gets a break. A precious, much needed-

"Oh, by the way," Xie Lian mumbles, swallowing down a grape, "Mu Qing is coming to lessons today."

“…What?” The bodyguard glances up, nearly choking on his congee. “Are you k—?!” He pauses, forcing himself to school his tone when Xie Lian raises an eyebrow. “I mean…won’t he be busy with…work?”

“No,” Mu Qing replies calmly. “I finish that before you two wake up.”

“Besides,” Xie Lian smiles, “I think I might learn a little better with someone studying with me.”

Feng Xin picks at his plate, suddenly not as ravenous as he was before. “That’s really only helpful if he can keep up, right?”

“…” Mu Qing gives him a sharp look, stepping behind the changing screen with his prince, helping him strip from his night clothes, then dressing him in his robes for the day. “I can keep up, thank you.”

“You—”

“Mu Qing is very intelligent, Feng Xin,” Xie Lian cuts him off.

“And it’ll be more fun if he’s there!”

“…” Feng Xin doesn’t say a word to that, turning his attention back to his bowl of congee.

‘He isn’t your friend.’

That’s what the guard wants to say.

That this is someone new. A stranger. And Xie Lian shouldn’t let him close so easily.

Before, it was just them, walking the hills up and down from Mount Taicang, and now…

There’s a third person there. Sitting beside him in his lessons. Training along side the both of them in the afternoons, and…

In part, Feng Xin feels a little…

Left out, when the other two devolve into academic conversation, in which he can take little part.

It can feel somewhat threatening at times, but also...

Maybe, on some small, near minuscule level...

"...You should finish up for the night."

...He worries.

Mu Qing glances up from where he's knelt on the floor outside of the prince's bed chamber, buffing out his boots for the second time that day, leveling him with a glare.

"What are you talking about?"

Feng Xin stares down at him, arms crossed, tight lipped.

To be absolutely clear: if Mu Qing wants to work himself to death, that's his business. Feng Xin doesn't care.

But, if you happen to be a casual observer, you'd notice that he works eighteen hours a day.

To the point where his eyes are unfocused, and his hands are slightly raw.

"...Maybe worry about yourself, instead of bothering me," the servant mutters, keeping his head down, shining the boot between his hands just a little more aggressively. "Wouldn't want you telling the prince that I 'can't keep up.'"

"When did I--?!" Feng Xin Sputters.

Then, he remembers that Xie Lian went to bed only a moment before, and he forces himself to lower his voice. "When did I say I was going to tell him?!"

"You didn't have to," Mu Qing snaps quietly. "And if you don't start putting your boots up before bed, I swear I'll--!"

Then, Feng Xin makes an unfortunate decision.

A poor choice of words, if you will.

“…Isn’t that your job?”

“…” Mu Qing’s hands freeze on top of Xie Lian’s boots. “…Excuse me?”

“I mean—putting stuff away—”

“For the prince,” the raven haired teenager hisses. “Not YOU!”

It’s the first time that Xie Lian wakes up to the sound of his bodyguard and his servant arguing in the hallway, loudly enough that it stirs the entire eastern wing of the palace—

(But it’s certainly not the last.)

And in the years that follow, that’s all either of them seem to remember.

Feng Xin, watching a forming friendship, feeling somewhat threatened by it.

Mu Qing, watching the other two obliviously mooning over one another, and—not caring. Only finding it irritating and disgusting.

But there were other days.

Days when they didn’t argue.

Days that were…Fun.

“Your highness…” Mu Qing mumbles, feeling somewhat reluctant. “I don’t think this is going to work.”

Xie Lian blinks, rocking back on his heels, “What do you mean? I made the plan up myself.”

Which naturally means that it is, without question, a perfect plan.

(If you ask Xie Lian.)

Mu Qing isn’t perfectly convinced.

“…Your clothes…are going to stick out.”

“Oh…” Xie Lian frowns, glancing over into the mirror. “These are the cheapest ones I have…”

And for where they’re going, they’ll…

Stick out horribly. The mere thought makes Mu Qing want to cringe.

Then, Xie Lian seems to be struck by an idea, glancing over his shoulder, an excited glint in his eye.

“…Couldn’t I just trade with you?”

Mu Qing pales.

“…That’s not possible, your highness.”

“I don’t think so,” Xie Lian muses, turning around fully and looking him over, tapping his perfectly manicured index finger against his chin. “You’re taller, but I weigh more, so…the fit should be about the same…”

As if THAT is the problem.

“…My clothes would probably fit you,” he admits, fighting the urge to snap at how ridiculous the entire thing is, “but I can’t wear yours, dianxia.”

Xie Lian frowns. “Why not?”

It feels ludicrous he even has to say it.

“I would get in trouble.”

“Even if I ordered you to?”

Mu Qing falls silent, not saying a word.

There are moments when the prince seems to think that, with the sweep of an order, he can make every problem go away. Like that’s helping, somehow.

But it isn’t helping. Mu Qing still gets in trouble.

Still, luckily for him—Xie Lian seems to pick up on the underlying anxiety.

This time.

“…Alright, what if I borrow an extra set from you?”

Mu Qing doesn’t ask if it’s an order or not—he doesn’t want to resent it later, if it is.

The robes are a little scratchy, if you ask Xie Lian—but not too bad. A little baggy around the hips, slightly tight in the arms, and overlong at his wrists, but…

It achieves the desired effect, certainly.

“…Now…if we’re doing this,” Mu Qing stops him, “there are terms.”

The prince stops in his tracks, staring at him curiously. “…What sort of terms?”

“You don’t talk to anyone, if you do, you don’t tell them who you are—actually, it might be better if you just pretend you can’t talk at all—are—are you listening to a word I’m saying?”

Xie Lian nods, his eyes slightly wide. “Yes, of course, just…”

He tilts his head to the side.

“I didn’t realize you could be bossy, Mu Qing.”

The servant blanches, his cheeks splotchy and pink. “I just…”

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing,” the prince points out.

“Actually, no one ever bosses me around—except for Guoshi, anyway…so I don’t mind it, it’s different!”

On one level, the fact that he finds something charming about someone speaking to him sternly is a little endearing. Mu Qing won’t admit that.

But as someone who has been ordered, day in and day out for his entire life—

Mu Qing finds it somewhat grating.

“And keep that guard of yours on a leash,” Mu Qing mutters, eyes flickering about as they make their way to the servant’s exit.

“Oh,” Xie Lian blinks.

“Well—I didn’t tell him.”

Mu Qing rolls his eyes, opening the door for him to step through.

(Even when Taizi Dianxia is posing as a servant, he waits for someone to open the door.)

“That doesn’t mean he doesn’t know you’re sneaking out.”

“Well,” the prince frowns.

“I’m not doing anything I’m not allowed to do.”

Technically speaking, he can leave the palace—or Mount Taicang—whenever the wants. He just usually doesn’t.

‘No, you’re just disguised as a servant and sneaking out the back…’ Mu Qing thinks to himself, but doesn’t dare say.

And luckily, he doesn’t have to say another word before Feng Xin proves his point, falling into step behind them.

“…Your highness? What are you wearing?”

“…” Xie Lian spins around, clasping his hands behind his back. “Good afternoon, Feng Xin! We were just…ah…”

“…” Mu Qing glances between the two of them, letting out an irritated sigh. “His highness asked me to escort him down to the village at the foot of Mount Taicang for the day.”

After all, it’s one of his last free days in the summer. The rest has been spent rehearsing.

The festival to celebrate the Heavens—one they hold at mid-autumn every year—and this year particular, the crown prince himself has been chosen to portray the Heavenly Warrior.

Not surprising, given he’s the foremost disciple on Mount Taicang, bit it requires much preparation.

As such, this is his last day to go and do as he likes—and he has every intention of making the most of it.

“…Why dress like that, then?” Feng Xin frowns, following closely behind them both. “And why not inform the guard?”

“Well…” The prince smiles, somewhat sheepish.

“…I didn’t exactly want all of the attention to be on me.”

It’s a somewhat novel idea.

Xie Lian doesn’t inherently loathe attention. He was born and raised into it—it’s natural to him.

To be admired by everyone. To hold a room in rapt attention when he speaks.

And he’s never once seemed to be one of those nobles that hungered for the idea of what it might be like to live a ‘normal’ life, or anything like that.

So…

Feng Xin watches the back of the prince’s head, curious.

Where is this coming from?

Feng Xin puzzles over that the entire walk down the mountain, and he notices something:

Xie Lian is as carefree as ever, walking lightly, but…

Mu Qing seems slightly more stressed than usual, his shoulders hunched.

Maybe because of the sneaking around, but…

When they finally do reach the village, they end up waiting outside of a small building, with Xie Lian twiddling his thumbs, Mu Qing tapping his foot anxiously, and Feng Xin—

He can’t take it anymore.

“What the fuck is—?”

Before he can finish the statement, the doors open.

And with it, a small flood of school aged children comes flooding out.

Which Feng Xin is even more surprised by—not because of the fact that Xie Lian is visiting a local school, he’s done that before—

But doing it here, like this—and so quietly.

Why is he—?

“Gege!”

A little girl comes rushing down the steps—her dark hair pulled into low pigtails, and the sight of Mu Qing—

It makes her smile wide, dimples cut into her cheeks as she throws herself into his arms.

“You came!” She cries, hugging him tightly around his waist.

“You said you couldn’t come!”

“…I wanted to surprise you,” Mu Qing mumbles, bending at the waist to hug her back.

His tone is softer than Feng Xin has ever heard it. Gentle and warm.

Honestly, he hadn’t thought that Mu Qing was capable of sounding like that.

“…Aren’t you gonna get in trouble?” She mumbles against the front of his robes, and Feng Xin distantly remembers—

Mu Qing does have younger sisters, doesn’t he? Several.

“Yeah, well…” the older brother in question smiles awkwardly, glancing over at Xie Lian.

“Someone important wanted to meet you.”

“…” She glances in the direction of Mu Qing’s gaze, following it until she sees…

Xie Lian, kneeling down beside her with a warm smile. “You must be Miss Suyin, is that right?”

At a passing glance, Mu Qing’s clothes disguise him easily enough. But when you look him in the face…

Even if he wasn’t recognizable, the red pearl earrings that he forgot to take off before leaving the palace that morning gleam in his ears, and the little girl’s eyes widen.

“…Dianxia?!” She whispers, shocked, then starts to bow very low, clearly startled, but Xie Lian quickly waves that off.

“Your older brother mentioned it was your birthday today, is that true?”

“…” Suyin nods, eyes the size of dinner plates.

“I see…” Xie Lian hums.

“Well, it just so happens that I came here to enjoy the end of summer festival, but…” he sighs, blowing a lock of hair out of his eyes. “I don’t have a date. And you know, as a prince, I can’t just take anyone, but…I thought the birthday girl might make time for me.”

Suyin wasn’t always a shy child, but in the last couple of years, she’s been…reclusive at best.

Mu Qing wasn’t sure how she was going to react to having this sprung on her, but—

The ten year old smiles, bobbing her head cautiously, and Xie Lian grins right back at her.

“…But does that mean gege won’t have a date?”

Mu Qing’s expression softens. Obviously, a day with a prince is any little girl’s dream come true—and she’s still worried about him.

Xie Lian brushes that off with a quick laugh—

“Oh, no—Feng Xin’s his date!”

His friends choke.

Suyin glances over at the two, quickly sizing Feng Xin up.

The guard shrinks slightly under her gaze, and Mu Qing’s hand smacks against his forehead, exasperated.

“Are you kidding?”

“What?!”

“She’s ten, and she’s four feet tall.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Mu Qing had assumed Feng Xin’s terror of women only extended to adults, but—apparently not.

“…Well,” Xie Lian looks back at Suyin with a smile. “They’re having fun. Wanna show me around?”

Suyin offers a slow, eager smile in response, taking his hand. “…Okay!”

Mu Qing had to admit…initially, when Xie Lian broached the idea, he thought it was ridiculous.

And even still—he was absolutely certain that the prince would forget that he offered, so…

He never expected to be here, in his village, watching…

His little sister leading the crown prince of Xianle from stall to stall, sharing sweets with him, braiding flowers into his hair.

And it…

Makes him look at the prince slightly differently than he did before.

It wasn't that he thought little of him. Mu Qing isn't blind to what the rest of the world sees.

He just...sometimes found him to be lacking in sincerity.

And that's hard to believe now, watching Xie Lian carry Suyin on his shoulders, watching the fireworks above.

It's hard to believe that he isn't sincere, when they make their way back to Mu Qing's home. He doesn't go inside, Mu Qing insists on that much, but he's rather chivalrous, dropping Suyin off at the door and presenting her with flowers, kissing her hand.

He's very much a prince charming, and Suyin's eyes sparkle with happiness.

"...He'll make a good husband one day," Mu Qing comments offhandedly, where they're standing off to the side, his arms crossed.

Feng Xin keeps his eyes trained ahead, his expression flat.

But his lips turn down slightly at the corners, and Mu Qing...

He feels a little bad. And then he resents himself for feeling sorry. It's a ridiculous crush. He's an idiot, and he should get over it, sometimes you just--

"Of course he will," Feng Xin replies calmly.

Mu Qing watches him from the corner of his eye, biting his lip. He never really has to hide his expression from Feng Xin, in moments like this.

Because he's never looking at Mu Qing.

"She'll be a very lucky princess." He shrugs, arms crossed.

"..." Mu Qing looks away.

...Sometimes, you just want things that you can't have.

But sometimes, Feng Xin is looking at him.

Laying back on the grass that night, watching the last of the fireworks before they walk back.

The prince between them, listening as Mu Qing hesitantly answers his questions.

About how many nights he used to lay out here, with his father and his sisters. Counting the stars until they couldn't keep their eyes open.

How they held onto the grass, so that way they wouldn't float away.

But one day, his father let go.

Feng Xin watches Xie Lian's expression crack slightly with sympathy. Watches, as he reaches for Mu Qing's hand, and promises not to let go.

The prince's kindness always makes Feng Xin's heart soften, but...

That isn't what he's looking at, in that moment.

...It's Mu Qing.

How wide his eyes get, when someone shows him kindness. Not narrowed or guarded, just...

Shockingly vulnerable.

They're obsidian in color. Feng Xin has called them ugly before, in arguments, but...

He's never meant it.

They reflect starlight so easily, so expressive.

And there are things that Feng Xin sees, things that Xie Lian can't--simply because he's never had to worry about such things.

Like when a family has been broken, and one child is left holding it all together.

He didn't know Mu Qing had so many younger sisters.

He didn't know that Mu Qing's mother had such a kind face--but with the laugh lines around her eyes comes shades of grief. Evidence of crimes years ago, like the witness marks on a clock. The scars that peek beneath the sleeves of her dress hold a story that no one wants to tell.

Feng Xin was born to protect things. That's all he's ever been taught to do. And guarding his prince has never been hard.

It's a natural instinct, to protect the things we love.

But for the first time, Feng Xin finds himself noticing...

No one is protecting Mu Qing.

And he doesn't say anything then.

He's too proud to admit that there's more to his forced interaction with the younger teenager than brewing resentment and antagonism.

When it's time to go, Xie Lian is sleeping peacefully, his cheek pressed against Mu Qing's shoulder.

The servant goes to wake him up, but Feng Xin stops him, shaking his head.

"I've got him."

Xie Lian mumbles sleepily, his arms hooking around Feng Xin's neck as he's pulled over his back, one leg hitched around his waist while the guard holds the other beneath the knee.

"...He's such a baby," Mu Qing mutters, walking beside them. "He's about to be seventeen, he can't just fall asleep all over the place..."

"Sure, he can," Feng Xin shrugs. "That's what he's got me for."

The servant falls silent, his chin tilting down.

The night is quiet, leaving them surrounded by the soft rush of the breeze through the grass. The crickets chirping lazily in the forests framing the path to Mount Taicang, fireflies drifting lazily through the air.

Suddenly, Mu Qing feels someone grasp for his hand.

Feng Xin's fingers are rough, calloused from training too often without cloves. He has them, the idiot just forgets to wear them.

Mu Qing's hands and feet are always cold like ice. When he visits home, he'll press them against his sister's legs when they're trying to sleep, just to hear her scream and giggle, flailing as she tries to get away.

But Feng Xin's are warm, making Mu Qing's fingertips naturally seek out his palm, not even thinking about it.

It just comes naturally.

For a moment, neither of them say a word. Mu Qing is wide eyes, lips slightly parted, and Feng Xin is pointedly staring ahead.

"...I didn't know about your dad."

That makes Mu Qing's eyes narrow slightly, his stomach sinking with disappointment, even though he feels stupid for having hopes at all, not even knowing what he was hoping for, but...

He doesn't want Feng Xin's pity.

But...it isn't.

"My mom died."

The admission is calm, blunt, with little art to the delivery.

"I was about the same age. I saw it."

Each phrase is a little clipped, like it's still hard for him to talk about, but delivered with careful intent of what he wants Mu Qing to piece together.

That Feng Xin gets it.

That it hurts. That it's frightening.

And he gets it.

"...Oh," Mu Qing mutters, watching the back of Feng Xin's eyes with a wide eyed gaze.

"But I don't have any siblings, so..."

So, he can't understand that part.

'It's hard.'

That's what Mu Qing wants to say.

That it's hard, and it's scary, and he's tired, but he doesn't get to be tired. Because he isn't just letting himself down if he breaks down.

That his mother is so proud of him, for learning cultivation. The whole village talks about it.

Even if it's just a spot that the royal family gave him out of charity, and the Guoshis certainly don't want him there.

That his mother cried with happiness, when she found out Mu Qing had been chosen to play the demon in the festival for the heavens this year.

But Mu Qing isn't like the other cultivators there. Xie Lian is training with every intention of becoming a god, and Mu Qing...

He's just lucky to be there at all, and it would only take one wrong step to ruin all of that.

He knows it, and he's scared, and he can't say so.

Instead of saying any of that--he opts for not saying a word.

Keeping his head low, holding Feng Xin's hand a little tighter.

Because it's comforting, and he needs it.

For the entire walk home, Feng Xin doesn't let go.

Only when they reach the back gates of the palace, and Xie Lian begins to stir against his back, mumbling under his breath.

"Shhh..." Feng Xin lets go of Mu Qing's hand reaching up to pat the back of the prince's head, "We're back, your highness."

"And thank goodness you are."

Mu Qing freezes, and he'd never admit that he shrinks behind Feng Xin at the sound of General Feng's voice, but that's exactly what he does.

"..." The young guard swallows dryly, setting the groggy prince down on his feet, "Yes, sir."

"Where were you three all afternoon?"

"...In the village," Xie Lian replies calmly, rubbing at his eyes, yawning as he starts to wake up fully. "I wanted to enjoy the festival. Is there a problem?"

Mu Qing stays behind the two of them, face downturned, shoulders tense.

Of the three, he has the most to lose.

It was his sister that Xie Lian snuck off to spend the day with. Even if it was the prince's idea, no one would see it that way.

"...His highness should have informed the palace guard, so we could have sent an escort." General Feng replies calmly. "It isn't safe."

"In the village?" Xie Lian arches an eyebrow. "...I respect that you have a job to do, General Feng, but I am capable of protecting myself. And if I wasn't, I had Feng Xin with me."

The General arches an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

He glances over Xie Lian's face, taking in sight of a small cut on the prince's cheekbone. "It doesn't seem as though you were completely unscathed."

Xie Lian touches his cheek, then shrugs. "I was playing with some children, and we rolled around a bit. It was probably a rock."

General Feng doesn't seem particularly impressed by the explanation. "You've never forgone an escort before, dianxia. Is there something you're trying to hide that your parents ought to know about?"

Mu Qing shrinks silently behind them.

(Or someone he's trying to protect.)

Feng Xin watches Xie Lian's eyebrows rise up sharply, slightly insulted. He's a tolerant person, hardly ever irritated, but...

He doesn't like being treated like a child, not under any circumstances.

"I--!"

"It was my fault." Feng Xin speaks up. "I said he didn't need one."

Both of the other teenagers look to him, shocked.

"It was a small excursion, and it was so close...his highness wanted to enjoy the festival without a fuss, and I told him I could do the job by myself." He explains. "It was my fault, General."

His father surveys him coldly.

"I see." He turns to Xie Lian, bowing his head politely. "I hope you enjoyed your afternoon, dianxia. I'm sure you probably have to awake early for the rehearsals, don't you?"

Xie Lian frowns, because...he does.

General Feng isn't a bad man, just...old fashioned and strict.

Particularly since his wife died. The entire thing was miserable business, and he hasn't been the same since.

"...Yes, I suppose I'll see you both in the morning," he murmurs, sending Feng Xin a look of quiet worry before he turns to go inside.

Mu Qing follows after him. After all, the prince still needs to bathe and ready himself for bed, but...

He hesitates in the doorway while Xie Lian carries on down the hall, pulling one of the floors from his hair, twirling it between his fingers, breathing it in with a sigh.

He doesn't hear what Mu Qing does.

/CRACK!/

The sound of a vicious slap.

"You don't come back unscathed when your prince doesn't," General Feng reminds him coldly. "You know better."

It's an unfair reaction--and punishment--over something as minor as a scratch, but...

"...I know, general." Feng Xin replies quietly, his head bowed. "I'm sorry."

"I don't want to hear 'I'm sorry,'" His father glares. "Don't let it happen again."

"...It won't, sir."

Feng Xin sounds calm, unaffected.

Always the soldier, even with his own father.

"Good."

General Feng glances up at the sky, the moon already rising high. "Run three laps around the grounds. And you'll be running extra training rounds during the prince's lessons for the rest of the month."

It's horribly unfair, but the guard doesn't argue.

"Yes, General."

Feng Xin turns on his heel, moving to fulfill the order without another word. And Mu Qing...

Slips down the hall after his prince, lost in thought.

In the years that follow, he'll be angry, and he won't be generous enough to look back on his moment when he's frustrated.

Wondering how Feng Xin could be so emotionally obtuse. Why even the most obvious parts of a relationship could flummox him.

But on this night, with the sound of that slap settling heavily in Mu Qing's chest...

He understands it.

Xie Lian is quiet that evening, watching himself in the mirror as Mu Qing combs out the wet strands of his hair.

“If you’re worried about Feng Xin, he’ll be fine.” Mu Qing offers, his eyes averted.

“…I’m not worried, not really,” the prince shakes his head.

“I just feel guilty that he’s being punished over something I did. I hate it when he does that. General Feng would never punish me.”

It isn’t about whether or not Xie Lian would have been punished, but Mu Qing doubts the prince would understand that.

“…Thank you, for today.” The servant mutters. “It meant a lot to Suyin.”

Xie Lian smiles at him through the mirror. “I had fun, and I was happy to do it.”

But Mu Qing notices something else—dark circles underneath the prince’s eyes.

“…Have you not been sleeping well?”

Xie Lian shrugs, glancing away. “If I explained, you would probably think I was crazy…” he mutters, laughing self consciously.

Mu Qing shrugs, going back to combing his hair—

“Alright, well,” the prince finds one wet lock, twirling it between his fingers.

And he starts with, of all things…

“Remember how, ten years ago…there was a volcanic eruption? Far out west?”

Mu Qing arches an eyebrow. “…Yes?”

“Well…” The prince bites his lip. “I had a dream, and I woke up just as the shockwave passed through Xianle.”

Well. That's admittedly odd. But it was also years ago. Xie Lian would have only been seven years old.

"Was the dream that bad?"

"...That's the thing," Xie Lian winds that lock of hair around his finger a little faster. "It wasn't. It...it's my favorite dream that I have."

Implying that it's recurring.

Which is odd. Volcanos are never considered to be a good omen. Few even knew there WAS a volcano in the south west, but...

So much land must have bene abandoned for a reason--and more than a thousand years ago, no less.

"...What's it about?"

Xie Lian bites his lip, pulling his knees up against his chest, where he's sitting on a stool in front of his vanity. "It always starts out dark, where I can't see a thing...and then..."

"What?"

"Butterflies," Xie Lian mumbles. "They're everywhere."

"...You're losing sleep because you're dreaming about butterflies?" Mu Qing questions flatly, and Xie Lian's cheeks...

Well, to the servant's surprise, they get a little pink.

"No!" He twirls that lock of hair round and round his finger. "But they're beautiful, Mu Qing."

his voice gets quiet, awestruck from talking about it. "Silver, and they glow in the darkness. That's when I start following them, and..." He trails off, and Mu Qing can't help but notice...

That blush isn't getting any less noticeable.

"...And what?"

"There's...a..."

Xie Lian is forced to stop when that lock of hair is wound all the way up his finger, and when he lets it go, it curls loosely.

"...a man, there," the prince mumbles, seeming a little sheepish.

Mu Qing pauses, comb held aloft.

"A man." He repeats flatly.

Xie Lian's eyes meet his in the mirror, and he has the sense to look a little embarrassed.

"You shouldn't be losing any sleep over a man, your highness."

"It's not like that!" Xie Lian shakes his head vehemently, finding another lock of hair to pull at anxiously.

"I've never met him! And..." He sends Mu Qing a look that is riddled with an uncharacteristic level of anxiety, "It's not like I'm a princess or something, it's not...something...inappropriate..."

Right.

Mu Qing keeps forgetting the prince hasn't come to terms with that.

He figured out that Xie Lian had no interest in women about three weeks into working for him. Three years since, and the prince seems to be aware of that fact as well--but terrified of admitting it.

Understandable, but still.

"And does this man happen to be good looking?"

"..." Xie Lian tilts his chin down, nodding. "He's...handsome," the prince admits.

Mu Qing is a little bit suspicious that the King and Queen might be a little too stuffy to have certain...conversations with their son.

It isn't weird for a teenage boy to have...intense dreams.

Sure, with his cultivation method, it's not like Xie Lian needs a full blown 'talk.'

Mu Qing's own mother didn't really have one with him either, but the circumstances were slightly different, and they both knew a conversation wasn't necessary.

Still...

"But it's odd."

Xie Lian mumbles, pulling his finger away from another newly formed curl.

Mu Qing sighs, trying to think of a way to say that it isn't 'odd,' wondering if that's even his place, when--

"It's like he knows me," Xie Lian whispers. "But I've never met him before."

And despite his insistence that it isn't like that, it...

...Well, it sounds very much like that.

And Mu Qing finds himself inexplicably relieved to hear that it's someone the prince has never met.

"What happens next?"

"...He kneels before me, kisses my hand..."

All normal ways to greet a prince, it's somewhat by the book.

"...And then he tells me to wait," Xie Lian frowns, his brow creasing. "That's when I wake up. Every single time."

Mu Qing frowns.

Well. That sounds somewhat unlike a...teenage boy kind of dream, and more like a...

"I think it means something," the prince murmurs. "I've been having the dream more and more lately, and..." He glances back at Mu Qing over his shoulder. "I feel like something is about to happen. Like...I'm going to meet him."

"Meet...the butterfly man," Mu Qing repeats slowly.

"...Well, that's obviously not his name."

Mu Qing bites back a smile. "Dream man didn't tell you that?"

"No," the prince murmurs, resting his chin on his knees. "I asked, but...it was like he couldn't answer me."

Mu Qing falls silent, contemplative.

"..." Xie Lian sighs, looking away from the mirror. "I'm tired--you must be too. We should both rest, okay?"

"..." The servant sets down the comb with a nod, picking up Xie Lian's boots as he heads for the door. "Sweet dreams, dianxia."

The prince blushes outright this time.

"Mu Qing!" He whines, but the door is already closing, leaving the younger teenager in the hallway, snickering.

It might be a little mean, teasing him, but...

Xie Lian never gets embarrassed like that. Never lets loose, or acts like a normal kid.

Sometimes, it's like he doesn't realize that he actually is a child. Not quite a man yet.

And while he thinks he's sent Mu Qing to bed, he's just given the servant a slightly early start on his nightly chores.

Preparing for the next day, re-shining his boots.

He finishes up with running the breakfast order to the kitchens before heading back to his rooms, and on his way there...

Feng Xin is slightly sweaty--understandably so, it's three kilometers around the perimeter of the grounds, and he just ran that three times over--rubbing the back of his neck as he walks down the hall. Likely to go to the baths, then to beed.

There's a welt on his cheek.

"..." They stop in the hallway, staring at one another.

After all, it's rare that they're ever alone.

Mu Qing is slightly unkempt himself. Sleeves rolled up to the elbow, hair a little scraggly after cleaning for the last hour or so.

And he wants to ask...

...It's stupid, but Mu Qing wants to ask Feng Xin if he's alright.

But he doesn't find the words to say that out loud.

Instead...

"...C'mon," the servant mutters, turning on his heel, leaving Feng Xin standing there, staring in confusion.

"Huh?"

"You heard me."

Mu Qing doesn't look back, his ponytail bouncing behind him lightly as he walks toward the kitchens. "Move your ass."

Feng Xin's eyes narrow slightly with irritation, and yet...

Well, he follows after him, shoulders hunched as Mu Qing leads him to...

The kitchens.

Empty now—the cooks won’t arrive for a few more hours, anyway.

Mu Qing reaches for a few ingredients, tossing them into a bowl in near silence as Feng Xin watches, neither speaking a word.

They always keep a small fire going in the night, burning low under the stoves.

As such, he’s able to place a pot over one of them without an issue.

“…” Feng Xin watches the mixture bubble with a raised eyebrow. “What are you doing?”

“Shut up.” Mu Qing mutters, grabbing a second bowl, throwing a few more ingredients, mashing them up into a paste.

Feng Xin falls silent again, none too thrilled about it, trying to figure out how this relates to the prince, because that’s the only reason the two of them are ever together—

Or, well—this could be a prank, but he can’t figure out how, and Mu Qing doesn’t seek him out for that.

He’s like a cat that will knock something valuable off of the counter if it happens to be in his path.

He’s more interested in crimes of opportunity.

Having finished whatever it is he’s doing, Mu Qing turns his head to look at Feng Xin contemplatively.

Mu Qing is almost seventeen, still in the middle of a late growth spurt, and at nineteen, Feng Xin as tall as he’s going to get.

And he’s not going to stretch up, or actually ask the idiot to bend down, so…

He hops up onto the kitchen counter, the bowl in hand.

“Come here.”

“…” Feng Xin watches him reluctantly, and Mu Qing rolls his eyes.

“I’m not gonna fucking bite you, but if you wanna be a baby about it…”

That inspires some irritated grumbling, but the teenager steps over until his hip brushes lightly against Mu Qing’s knee.

Which he doesn’t seem to notice. And Mu Qing doesn’t either.

Obviously.

He dips two fingers into the bowl, bringing them up to the welt on Feng Xin’s cheek.

The guard doesn’t wince, even though it must hurt, just raises an eyebrow.

“…What is this stuff?”

“It’ll make the swelling go down by the time he wakes up,” Mu Qing mutters.

It’s an easy deflection. Obviously, Xie Lian would be upset to find out that Feng Xin got slapped over the incident.

Hiding it from him is easier.

Obviously.

“…” Feng Xin seems to accept the answer, looking over towards the pot sitting on the stove. “What’s that for, then?”

Mu Qing blinks, setting the bowl with the makeshift salve down. “Congee.”

“…How is that supposed to help?”

The servant stares at him like he’s stupid.

“You just ran for what, two hours straight?” He questions dryly, “Were you seriously going to go to bed without eating anything?”

Feng Xin stares at him, his expression frozen and blank, gears moving slowly in his head.

“…You made me congee.”

Mu Qing isn’t looking at him.

He’s wiping the mixture off of his fingertips with a rag, and grumbling. “Honest to fucking god, you’re a grown ass man, I shouldn’t have to tell you to eat something after that.”

Feng Xin’s expression hasn’t changed.

“You made me congee,” he repeats, eyes locked on his face.

Mu Qing carries on, not paying attention to what he’s saying, “And it was my sister he went out to see today, so if anyone found out why, it would’ve been my ass. I don’t wanna owe a stupid prick like you.”

He finally does stop talking when Feng Xin’s hand lands on his shoulder.

Finally, he stops, looking up, and…

Feng Xin is staring down at him intently, and he repeats it one more time…his voice noticeably softer.

“You made me congee.”

“…How many times are you gonna fucking say that?” Mu Qing mutters.

But now…it’s…

Congee isn’t particularly hard to make. And it isn’t fancy, either. It’s not a particularly big gesture, except for the fact that…

It’s the only thing Feng Xin eats for breakfast in the morning. Ever. Even with the array of dishes that gets sent up each morning.

And now, Mu Qing can’t seem to shut up.

“And the stuff was already out for breakfast in the morning, I didn’t go out of my way or anything, so don’t go and get any—!”

It’s not exactly like Feng Xin decided to do it.

At first, he just wanted to make him shut up.

Which he did. With his mouth.

Leaving Mu Qing frozen, eyes wide, his hands holding the lip of the counter in a death grip.

Feng Xin’s lips are just a little bit chapped, but warm against his own. Insistent too, even if they’re slightly clumsy.

And it’s…

Slightly terrifying.

Because it’s easy to hide what you’re thinking, to hide that you want something, when you aren’t under strict scrutiny.

Mu Qing didn’t realize how badly he wanted to be kissed until it actually happened. And now he’s here.

He’s here, and his heart is pointing, and he can’t breathe.

He’s here, and it feels like there’s a balloon swelling in his chest. If it explodes, he might die.

They’re both frozen for a moment. Mu Qing with an avalanche of self revelation, and Feng Xin, realizing what he did.

And Mu Qing—ever sarcastic, guarded, slightly vindictive Mu Qing—

“…You’re really sweaty,” he mumbles.

Which sounds like something that might be a complaint, but he doesn’t say it that way.

His voice is a little small, though not upset, just…

Nervous.

Like a boy who just got kissed for the first time.

And it might be Feng Xin’s first time kissing someone, but he’s older. Supposedly more worldly. And he’d rather die than admit to that.

Instead, he answers rather intelligently—

“You still have grass in your hair.”

This time, it’s harder to say who leans in. Just that someone does.

Mu Qing’s lips part under his, trembling slightly. The movements are slow, awkward—then clumsy and rushed.

But good.

His hands are in Feng Xin’s hair, and it’s good.

Feng Xin’s hands are on his waist, and they’re warm.

Mu Qing doesn’t know it right now. That over the next eight centuries, this is the only boy that he’s going to kiss.

Usually when he’s angry, or hurting.

Over time, he’ll forget that their first kiss was the sweetest.

It lingers too long for either of them to call it a mistake. It can’t be labeled as impulsive either. Not when it’s a series of decisions.

Feng Xin, pressing closer. Mu Qing’s knees slighting farther apart. His lips parting, and Feng Xin’s tongue peeking between, drawing a gasp.

Feng Xin seems to decide at one point, that it’s too good to pull away. Mu Qing comes to the parallel confusion that he doesn’t want him to.

The frantic rush of it all won’t come until the next time. This is…

Touching without a destination in mind.

With every brush of Feng Xin’s mouth comes with a question:

Is this okay?

Should we stop?

Mu Qing thinks it is, and doesn’t ever want to.

But eventually, they do.

When there’s the faint clang in the distance—probably one of the cooks arriving to start breakfast preparations.

The two jump apart—well, Mu Qing can’t do more than lean away, but Feng Xin practically leaps back, hair standing on end, blushing from ear to ear.

They sit in silence for a moment, wide eyed and breathless, staring at one another, unable to think of what to say.

Eventually, Feng Xin blurts out—

“I’m sorry.”

Mu Qing doesn’t respond, lips still slightly parted, a usually overactive brain struggling to catch up.

The guard turns to go, then stops, remembering—

Then, he’s fumbling for one of the extra bowls, snatching a spoon.

He barely manages to ladle himself a serving before one of the cooks walks in, raising an eyebrow. “What are you two doing down here so late?”

Feng Xin jumps at the sound of her voice, his shoulders hunching, and he barely manages to blurt out—

“Thanks for the congee!”

There is something mildly hilarious about the way that he makes a beeline for the door, running into it and nearly spilling the rice porridge all over himself before slipping out.

The cook stares after him, sending Mu Qing a curious look.

“What’s gotten into him?”

Mu Qing shrugs, looking away. “A girl tried to hold hands with him in the village today. He might be in the process of faking his death to escape the embarrassment as we speak.”

That draws a soft laugh from her. “You’re too hard on him, you know,” she points out gently.

“He’s a good lad. Just a little thick headed.”

Mu Qing knows that.

He’d rather die than say so, but he does.

“And you should be in bed, little dove.” She adds, tying an apron around her waist. “You’ll be lucky if you get more than an hour of sleep at this rate. Go on.”

Mu Qing shrugs, looking down at his feet. “I’m not a little kid anymore…” he points out quietly.

“Bah,” the cook sighs, reaching over to pinch his cheek. “Could’ve fooled me, with that sulky expression of yours. Take a bun with you, understand? There’s hardly any meat on you.”

All of the women in the kitchen treat him like that—but then again, they’ve known him since he started here, back when he was only twelve years old.

He does take the bun, but he hardly eats it.

Laying in bed, staring at the ceiling.

Occasionally brushing his fingertips over bruised lips, curling up on his side.

‘You still have grass in your hair.’

He reaches up to feel for it, but…

Feng Xin must’ve brushed it off already.

Is it going to be different tomorrow? Will they say anything?

Will it be worse if they don’t?

He barely sleeps at all, and the next morning—Feng Xin doesn’t wake up to a boot slamming against his head, or a kick against his door.

They’re both quiet, looking anywhere but each other, and…

The day before—the stupid festival, the fireworks, walking home after, even that brief lapse in sanity in the kitchens—

It was a good day. Like…

What it might have been like, if the three of them were normal teenagers, and the world wasn’t complicated.

But they aren’t.

He’s reminded of that when the palace seamstresses drop off the robes for the mid autumn festival for the final fitting.

When he’s busy placing flowers in the prince’s hair, arranging his sleeves as the Queen stands off to the side, examining the costume’s details.

“Oh, darling…” she smiles, her yes brimming with pride. “You look perfect.”

“Well,” Xie Lian pushes his hair behind his ears, trying not to get in Mu Qing’s way. “They don’t have the mask finished yet—”

“And when it is, that will be perfect too,” The Queen waves him off.

“You always are.”

The performance will be perfect, naturally. The entire day will go off without a hitch, because—

Because it’s Xie Lian.

And Xie Lian’s perfect.

That’s easy to stomach, coming from a mother to her son. Even if it seems to make the prince a little tense, but…

When Mu Qing’s gaze slides towards the door—

He sees him watching.

Or—

The better way of saying it is that he sees the /way/ Feng Xin is watching.

Eyes trailing over the prince’s face, the jewels in his hair, the graceful poise of his arms.

It’s more than simple admiration.

Mu Qing’s fingers go still.

In a distant way, he thinks to himself—

‘Oh. That’s fucked up.’

And it sounds so calm in his head. Unbothered.

But it isn’t.

Because it’s unfair, and terrifying, and vulnerable, and—

Mu Qing doesn’t have to hide it when his lips tremble.

Because no one is looking at him anyway.

‘Why did you do that?’

That’s all he can think about, watching him look at someone else like that.

‘Why would you do that, then look at him like this?’

But it’s a necessary reminder:

That most of the time, you don’t get what you want.

And it’s hard not to look at that perfect face, the face of the boy who never gets mad, the boy who doesn’t have any secrets—the boy that always gets what he wants—

It’s hard not to look at that face, and hate him. Just a little bit.

Then, he swallows it down.

But that’s the thing about perfection—it doesn’t exist.

When you assign that quality to a person, all you’re doing is building a palace out of golden blocks.

And one day, it’s doomed to come tumbling down.

Because one day, for the first time in Xie Lian’s life…

Things weren’t perfect.

The day his life changed forever, and he didn’t even know it yet.

The day when, after making three laps around the Grand Martial Avenue, all of the screaming and cheering seemed to go quiet.

The day when a boy dropped from the sky like a falling star.

And he would feel so ashamed later, to remember how, at the time, it didn't feel like he had done anything special. Other than the scolding he got after, the memory didn't stick out to him.

Not until later.

But for the little boy who fell, it was everything.

"Oi!" The kick is sharp, landing heavily against a small set of ribs, sending the little stray scurrying back from the street stand. "You think I'm supposed to believe a mongrel can pay?! Go on!"

The child lingers on the ground for a moment, holding his side.

"Are you deaf?!"

The stall owner glares, "I'll kick that ugly little face of yours in if I see you near here again!"

There isn't a coherent reply from the boy, his head hanging low, and the man glares.

"Be a little more generous, love." His wife mutters from beside him. "He's the one who..."

The entire neighborhood remembers it, but scarcely speaks of what happened to the poor woman.

It's not something that bears repeating.

"Doesn't give him the right to be a little thief," her husband grouses, crossing his arms stubbornly.

"..." The Stall Owner's wife shakes her heaad, sending the boy a sympathetic look. "Why don't you go to the temple of the Heavenly Emperor? I hear they're giving out bread for the festival. Or...the procession always hands out sweets, how about that?"

The boy pulls himself to his feet, spitting blood onto the pavement before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

His movements are slow, stumbling.

He doesn't even look at her as he turns, moving back towards the crowds.

"Who cares," he mutters, keeping his head down.

He's gotten so used to being hungry, it's almost uncomfortable to feel the absence of it. He only tried to swipe an apple because his head has been so light today, but...

It doesn't matter.

He wanders through the screaming, cheering crowds.

None of it matters, and he won't pray to anyone.

That's one of the lessons from his mother that he's managed to keep with him, even if they become harder and harder to remember as time goes on.

You don't waste time, asking for gods to help you.

You look after yourself.

She only ever prayed in their old temple in Qinghe, but never once here, in Xianle.

When the boy asked why--she said there wasn't a temple for him here.

Though Hong'er never asked who 'he' was, he doesn't think that he cares.

All he knows is that the cheering is too loud.

And for what, he can’t imagine.

There’s absolutely nothing in this place worth celebrating.

Xianle is a wealthy city, it’s true—but unless you were born in a certain house, you’d never know it.

For those who aren’t so fortunate, life is a much more brutal existence.

It makes them ungenerous, selfish, and cruel.

It doesn't leave room for a boy with no mother, no father, and no food. He's constantly crowded out, shoved away. Hiding like a rodent in the shadows of an alley, just to avoid being beaten.

Even the children here are hopeless.

Driven to cynicism at such a young age.

Hong'er is unlucky, because he's ugly. People are even less generous with something they don't want to see.

And no one seems to want to see him, even now.

They grumble with irritation, shouldering him out of the way.

They all want to get closer to the front of the crowd. To see the show.

More accurately, to see the God Pleasing Warrior fight off the wicked Demon.

Saving the precious people of Xianle. Guaranteeing another year of good fortune.

What a joke.

They had the parade last year. They supposedly guaranteed good fortune last year.

But Hong'er's life was miserable last year. And it'll still be miserable this year, too.

But still, everyone around seems to genuinely believe it. Screaming, throwing flowers in the air.

That was something else his mother used to tell him.

Gripping his shoulders, looking him in the eye very seriously. "Don't believe anything, or anyone without a good reason."

Raising a child alone in a city was hard work, after all. Dangerous work.

He keeps on losing memories of her, the older he gets.

Hong'er is afraid that one day, she'll completely disappear from his thoughts.

Then there won't be anyone left to remember who cared about him. Who was kind to him.

Then, he'll really be alone.

But he remembers one thing.

The day they left. Before all of that walking.

Walking, walking, endless walking.

Now, Hong'er that he hadn't complained so much.

He remembers that last day when they were in Qinghe, when his mother, who had always been so cynical of gods and humans alike, asked him to pray.

Hong'er refused. He isn't used to big, grand places. The marble pillars and grand hall of the temple felt alien to him.

His mother went alone. Never forced him to believe in something that he didn't want, but when he returned, he asked a reasonable question, given what she had always taught him--

'Why believe in some martial god, anyway?'

Her answer was simple:

'He gave me a reason to.'

He envies that now.

Because she's gone, and he's alone.

She's gone, and no one will look at him.

Even now, he finds himself getting pulled deeper through the crowd--like a pebble, lost in a current.

The only way to escape it, naturally, is to climb the city walls.

Other children are watching there too, elbowing one another as they try to get a better look at the soldiers. The flower maidens, dressed in silks and jewels tossing petals so high, mixing with that of the crowd--to the point where it's practically a rain shower of flowers.

"He's coming!"

"Would you shut up and move out of the way?!"

"They'll be around the corner any minute!"

The cheering is reaching a fever pitch, he's surrounded on all sides, and...

All Hong'er can feel, in that moment, is anger.

Angry at how selfish, stupid, and hungry people are.

At how idiotic it is, to put on a show like this. And for what? To make people think that the world is better than it is?

It isn't.

Awful things happen every day. And people just watch.

They think they deserve to celebrate?

For a moment, there's just a desire to ruin it. To shatter that warm image of happiness and reveal it for what it really is.

That's what Hong'er has always done. He breaks things.

But it feels so much better when he's doing it on purpose. When he's in control.

And in that brief flicker of a moment, there's temptation. Staring at the edge of the wall and the plunge below, remembering something else his mother said, long ago.

'I think you'd be an adorable ghost--promise you'll haunt me forever, alright?'

She said that, but she was the one who ended up becoming a ghost.

Hong'er drifts closer, his eyes fixed on that edge.

And it seems better to ruin everything, to smash his fists against this scene and break it, to see her again, than...

The cheering builds to a thunderous roar.

And it isn't until then, that Hong'er actually looks at the parade below.

It isn't until then, that his entire life changes.

There are other figures, of course. The soldiers. The flower maidens. The demon to be vanquished.

But Hong'er doesn't see any of them.

There's just one person.

One person in the entire world.

And for a moment, he already feels like a ghost. Like his body was knocked away in the space of a moment, leaving him without breath or pulse.

Moving like water, long strands of hair streaming in the breeze.

Every step comes with ease, the gleam of his sword marking each movement as he dances through the streets, shining brighter than any of the jewels in his hair.

Hong'er feels caught by it.

Like a hook has sunk into him, and this impossible person is on the other end of the line.

His heart swells in his chest, lips trembling as he leans closer, jostled by the people around as he claws between them, desperate for just one look, just one more look, a small sound of panic escaping his throat when the figure disappears from view.

He needs, he--he just needs to see--

The person in front of him steps away suddenly, when he wasn't expecting it, and he's sent tumbling forward, until...

There's screaming.

It takes him a moment to realize what for, but...then, the wind is rushing past his hair, and a pulling in his stomach, like...

Freefall.

He's falling.

And there isn't fear in that moment. Not at all. Just...

Regret.

Hong'er hadn't expected to feel that, before his death.

He's wanted to die so many times, but now, staring up at the sky, feeling it as the ground rushes closer, he just--he just wants...

/Thump!/

The boy slams into something solid with a thud, but...not the ground.

/Ba-bump./

A white jade mask falls away, and the world with it.

Now, the screaming is deafening, but not the same as before.

Not out of fear, or excitement.

No, this--this is euphoria.

'DIANXIA! DIANXIA! DIANXIA!'

But it all fades into a low buzz in Hong'er's ears, his eye wide, focused on the face above his own.

A face adored by so many. Revered in poems and song. Every artist, musician, and author has tried to put the essence of such beauty to words.

For Hong'er, only three come to mind.

'This is it.'

Just those three, his heart hammering in his cheset.

'DIANXIA! DIANXIA! DIANXIA!'

This is it.

Deep in his heart, no, his soul, he knows.

Hong'er has never had any love for himself. The world never allowed it.

He's ugly, hateful, and selfish. He always has been.

And, he's always said so.

Sometimes, he's even said the words: 'I never should have been born.'

There was nothing he ever did that made his mother so angry. Gripping him by the shoulders, and saying—

‘Hong’er, look at me.’

A hand envelopes his trembling fingers, squeezing them soothingly.

‘Your life will never be easy.’

When they land, it’s impossibly graceful.

Hong’er is barely even jostled by it, despite falling from so great a height.

And still, it feels like he’s falling.

‘But you are stronger—and braver—than you could ever understand.’

Those eyes are like living gold, staring down at him with such warmth, he can hardly breathe.

‘And I know, with all my heart—fate put you on this earth for a reason.’

The Crown Prince of Xianle smiles down at him softly, trying to speak over the roar of the crowds, but it’s no use.

‘My brave Hong Hong’er—you were born for a reason.’

“DIANXIA! DIANXIA! DIANXIA!”

In that moment, he knows:

This is it.

The arm around him squeezes gently, holding him completely secure against the prince’s side.

This is what he was born for.

He doesn’t know why, and he doesn’t know how—but everything he’ll ever be, everything he’ll ever do—

It’s for him.

The prince glances back towards the rest of the procession, and Hong’er suddenly squeezes his hand back, getting those eyes to return to him.

‘Look at me.’

He’s selfish, and greedy, and hungry.

‘Don’t ever stop looking at me.’

“…” The prince smiles at him, gently reassuring.

He lifts his sword with one arm, holding the child's trembling form against him with the other, whispering;

"Don't be scared."

He isn't.

This is the first time in two years that someone has touched him without cruel intentions.

The first time in just as long that he's felt...safe.

Not jostled for even a moment as the prince holds him close, fighting with one hand without a single hint of strain.

And when it's over, the screams of the crowd are unmatched.

But Hong'er doesn't hear.

All he sees is that smile, the halo of petals around his head.

...Almost like a crown of flowers.

Centuries later, he will relive his.

He'll jump down into a pit, just to catch his savior when he falls down again.

He'll fight a demon, while cradling this man in his arms.

But that is a hundred lifetimes away. With countless years of longing and suffering and waiting in between.

For now, all he can do is stare, clinging closer. Shivering when the prince's other arm wraps around him, carrying him through the street.

"Are you alright?"

Hong'er doesn't answer. Can't seem to find his voice at the moment, cautiously pressing his cheek against taizi dianxia's sleeve.

"..." Xie Lian holds him close, rubbing a hand up and down his back soothingly as guards surround them, leading them away from the crowds.

The demon from before slips free from his own mask, pushing sweat soaked locks of hair from his forehead as he sends the crown prince an annoyed stare.

"What were you thinking?"

Hong'er frowns, gripping the prince's hand a little tighter.

Who is he, to talk to him like that?

"What was I supposed to do?" Xie Lian tilts his head, "I couldn't let him get hurt."

It's baffling to hear.

It's been so long since anyone cared if he was alive at all, much less if he was injured.

"And if I had left him back there, he would have been trampled," Xie Lian explains with a shrug, glancing down at the child once more, looking him over. "I think he's just shaken up."

"Understandably so," a nearby guard mutters, stepping over. "Do we know where his parents are?"

Still, Hong'er doesn't reply.

That seems to worry the prince somewhat, but in this situation...there's little he can do personally.

"I have to deal with my parents and the Guoshi...could you take him away from here? Getting somewhere quiet might help him calm down."

Feng Xin nods, reaching over to take him when Xie Lian tries to hand the child over.

"...Aren't you going to take him?" The prince frowns, to which Feng Xin grits his teeth, his eyes narrowing slightly with effort.

"I'm trying, but...this little...he...doesn't want to let go!"

Xie Lian can feel as much from the way the child is clinging to his sleeves—and he sighs, offering the boy a patient smile.

“I know you’re scared,” he murmurs, rubbing his back. “But Feng Xin won’t hurt you. And I’m afraid I still have more work to be done.”

‘Don’t.’

That’s all he can think, staring up at him.

Selfish, selfish, selfish.

Don’t go. Don’t stop looking at me.

I just got you. I don’t want it to be over yet.

But slowly, however reluctantly, Hong’er let’s go, allowing himself to be carried away in the guard’s arms.

Still, he looks back over Feng Xin’s shoulder, watching the prince’s shrinking form—

And that feeling in his chest hasn’t changed.

A deep, unshakeable knowledge that Hong’er’s purpose lies with him.

That he’ll see him again.

But next time, the terms will be different.

That’s what he tells himself,

And the rest of Hong’er’s life, all of the years that he draws breath, is defined by the moments he spends with the crown prince of Xianle—and the moments of aching in between.

The next time he sees him—it’s through a veil of fear and pain.

And it’s dianxia, saving him again.

Even when all Hong’er can seem to do is break things. Even when he isn’t trying to.

Even when a building is set fire, malicious spirits are released, and all anyone can seem to do is blame him.

Hong’er hasn’t pleaded before, but he did then.

That he wasn’t cursed, even if, in part, some small voice in his head was always saying it was true.

And unlike every other time in his life, where he was cast aside, called hideous, scorned and recoiled from like a deformed beast—

The prince just held him close.

“I know,” he whispered. “I know you’re not.”

And it was the third time they met, when everything seemed to fall into place.

Which makes sense.

Throughout Hong’er’s years on earth, the third time will always be the charm.

When he’s standing in a temple, more lost than ever.

Asking for a reason. For meaning.

Later, with a note of sheepishness, his god will tell him that these words were arrogant. Foolish.

‘If you can’t find meaning, please—allow me to be that meaning.’

In that moment—it was as though Hong’er’s life finally made sense.

All while the world rapidly seemed to be learning a lesson:

That Xianle wasn’t as invincible as it seemed. That their crown prince was not as perfect as he pretended to be.

It changes nothing, however, for Hong’er.

Because he never needed him to be perfect.

And Xie Lian—

Maybe he was arrogant, when he was young. Had a tendency towards delusions of grandeur.

But he always knew that he wasn’t perfect.

It was only when he began to fail, for the first time in his life, that he felt afraid.

Because then—everyone else knew it, too.

There were no more festivals. No more nights laying under the stars, counting until his eyes began to feel heavy.

Feng Xin buried a father. Mu Qing a sister. And Xie Lian—

Xie Lian watched so many faces, young, bright, and full of hope, walk onto the battlefield.

For him.

And he watched so many of them come back, only to be laid down in a grave.

Over and over again.

To the point where he can’t look at them anymore.

To the point where he feels himself beginning to change.

Becoming so angry, so frustrated, so—

So helpless.

And Xie Lian expected to be blamed for failing. When his people began to cry out in frustration, he understood it.

What he never expected, not in a hundred years, was for the Heavens to blame him for trying.

His visits become more limited—and noticeably strained.

His deputies stand by him, as is expected. But otherwise…

The other gods avoid him, when possible.

Treat him like a bad omen.

And, as time goes on, they begin to view him with his newfound reputation in mind:

A god of misfortune.

Still, there is one willing to speak to him.

And it leaves many scandalized, on the eve of the prince of Xianle’s trial, that a martial god of such high rank would pay him a personal visit in his Heavenly Palace.

Xie Lian doesn’t look up from his calligraphy when the door opens, his posture tense.

“Who is it?”

“Your highness.”

The sound of that voice is enough to make him lift his chin, startled.

“…General Ming Guang,” he murmurs, gripping his calligraphy brush just a little tighter. “Have you come to bring me to the trial?”

The Martial God of the North shakes his head.

“His highness the emperor has requested a private meeting with you before all of that,” he shrugs, his arms crossed.

In spite of being so similar in rank and strength, they haven’t interacted much, since Xie Lian’s ascension.

He finds himself regretting that now.

Maybe things were always meant to turn out this way, but—

Part of Xie Lian wonders if it might have been different, if he had asked for help.

Still, it’s too late for that.

“Are you here to bring me to him, then?”

“…I doubt you need an escort, your highness.”

“…” Xie Lian sets the brush down, turning his head to give Pei his full attention. “Then why are you here?”

“…I didn’t think I would have the chance to discuss it with you later,” Pei admits with a small shrug. “But I plan on entering your territory.”

“…Xianle?” Xie Lian questions flatly. “Why would you want to go there?”

If his intention is to help, that would be maddeningly hilarious.

The war is already over. He already lost.

“…I’ve been looking for someone, and I now have reason to think they’re in the central plains.”

Xie Lian finally looks in his direction, raising an eyebrow. “Someone from your territory?”

Pei seems slightly hesitant, but…

He nods.

The prince arches an eyebrow. “…A mortal?”

The general stands a little straighter.

“Last I checked, having relationships with them isn’t a crime.”

No, it isn’t. Not unless you decide to do something more than watch them suffer. Then, you’re a criminal.

Xie Lian is slightly bitter.

“And what makes you think this person is in Xianle?”

The tone in Pei’s voice surprises him.

“Because it’s the only place where I haven’t looked.”

It’s that of…naked worry.

Xie Lian slides back from his table, silks and jewels tinkling softly as he looks at Pei full on.

“General, this sounds like a serious matter for you.”

Xie Lian, of course, won’t remember this conversation very much as the centuries go on. A moment in a fairly painful time in his life, years that Xie Lian would work very hard to forget—

But Pei Ming won’t forget the sympathy. The lack of judgment.

“…She ended things years ago,” the description makes Xie Lian’s eyes widen slightly. “She would still pray, on occasion—to let me know that she was alright, but…”

The General’s shoulders slump.

“One day, she stopped. I started looking soon after that.”

It’s shocking, to hear Pei admit he had that sort of relationship with a mortal woman.

(Of course, if Xie LIan had paid any attention to the gossip in the Heavenly Realm during his time as an official, he would have known the affair was not the part that was shocking.)

(It was the fact that the woman was the one who ended it—and that Pei had continued to worry for her welfare after the fact.)

And while he does feel sympathy, privately, he does think that falling in love with a mortal sounds like a terrible idea.

Xie Lian hasn’t had to mourn someone dear to him before. No close friends or relatives. He thinks of the fact that he’ll one day outlive his parents with distant dread.

The thought of falling in love with a mortal, than losing them—the prospect of such grief seems overwhelming.

“…If she was in Xianle, I’m afraid her odds of survival wouldn’t have been particularly high,” the prince admits, trying to avoid sounding particularly self pitying when he speaks. “We didn’t have only the war to contend with, after all.”

The plague took far more.

Pei bows his head. “I understand that. But I have to know, even if she…”

Xie Lian understands what he means, even if he doesn’t say so explicitly.

Even if she was the one who walked away—the General doesn’t want to feel also though he…abandoned her.

It’s a horrible feeling.

Being all powerful, and still being unable to protect that which you love.

Xie Lian understands.

His lips turn up at the corners, slightly bitter.

“Well, you hardly need my permission to entire Xianle after today. I doubt that anyone does.”

Pei watches him for a moment, then lifts his chin.

“If I were to enter a martial god’s territory without announcing my intentions, that would only be because I no longer respected the man.”

“…” Xie Lian looks away, fighting to hide the emotions on his face, his throat tight.

“…I should go and see the emperor, before the trial starts,” he mutters, rising to his feet. “But…” he glances over at Pei Ming one last time.

The next time they meet, he won’t be able to see the General’s face.

“If you tell me her name, I can check with my deputies.”

After all—Feng Xin has been left in charge of dealing with what remains of the Xianle army, but Mu Qing has been handling a growing refugee crisis. If the woman Pei is looking for is alive—it’s not impossible that he’s encountered her.

The general hesitates, at first.

But finally, he answers.

“Qing Yuan.”

Xie Lian takes mental note of that, and Pei adds—

“She was the same height as you—dark hair, gray eyes, with a small scar on the right side of her jaw. High born—and she spoke like it, too.”

Basic, identifying features.

“…Do you have any idea why she would have stopped speaking to you?” Xie Lian questions softly, adjusting his sleeves as he prepares to leave.

The general bites the inside of his cheek, regretful.

“No,” he admits. “But she is a proud woman. Often to her own detriment.”

“I suspect it has something to do with that.”

“…” Xie Lian nods, making his way towards the door. “I wish you the best of luck then, General. May Heaven’s blessings be upon you.”

Pei’s smile is tinged with a sense of foreboding.

Somewhat frightened by what he might find.

Still, he completes the phrase:

“And by Heaven Official’s Blessing, No Paths are Bound.”

But the news awaiting him when he descends upon Xianle is as cruel as what Xie Lian himself learns upon checking with Mu Qing on his way to the Imperial Palace.

That there was a young woman by that name, matching Pei Ming’s description in the capital city. But Mu Qing doesn’t know that name because he encountered a refugee.

He knows that name, because before the war, most of the working class in the city had heard of what happened.

The young woman known as Qing Yuan had been living in the warehouse district. A former concubine, still known to do such work, but not as a sole occupation. People also knew her to have worked in book keeping with a local merchant.

At one point, she was even the assistant to the instructor at a local academy.

Intelligent, capable, and hardworking.

But, unfortunately for her—Qing Yuan’s past erased the chance for any future.

Apparently, when’s he came to Xianle…it was to flee her husband.

A violent man.

A wealthy one, as it turned out. One who was wiling to do whatever it took, to find her once more.

And when he did…

It resulted in one of the most gruesome scenes to rock the streets of Xianle, even with the warm and plague that would come.

Mu Qing spares the worst details.

But what he does mention, the detail in the story that makes Xie Lian’s heart break for Ming Guang—

It’s that Qing Yuan’s son saw the entire thing.

A boy of just seven years old.

He disappears from the record soon after that. Likely killed like his mother—or dead, in the war.

A miserable story, riddled with pain and misfortune.

It almost makes Xie Lian wonder if there was some point, to the idea that gods should never interfere in the lives with mortals.

A point that only feels more clear now, standing before the entrance to the Imperial Palace.

It’s only been three years, since his first ascension.

Xie Lian was seventeen then. So excited, so proud.

And all he wanted, more than anything, was the acknowledgement of the god above the rest.

His friend, his mentor—his emperor—Jun Wu.

He wanted so badly to seem grown up.

But now, standing before the gates to his palace—Xie Lian feels like he’s still an ungrateful, oversized child, waiting for a scolding.

That’s not what awaits him, however, when he steps inside.

The emperor is facing away from him, cross legged on the ground.

There’s a screen on the back wall of the imperial palace, one that can be pulled back to reveal the gardens below, as it is now.

Endless rows of flowers.

They used to dazzle the young prince. He could lay there for hours, speaking with the emperor about the world below.

It was quiet, peaceful, even.

The only times from the Heavens that Xie Lian ever finds himself looking back on with some measure of fondness.

After all, Jun Wu was a man with the entire world upon his shoulders, but he would take the time to spend an afternoon with him.

A signal that, even among gods, Xie Lian was special.

Leaning his head against the emperor’s leg as he laid back against the grass, flowers in his hair, talking on, and on, and on.

But those times are long since passed.

Jun Wu simply watches the flowers, remembering.

There’s a sadness to him now.

Xie Lian presumes it must be disappointment.

Or dread, even, of what’s to come.

(And it is. For what is to come. For what he is going to do.)

“You asked to see me?”

(For how far things will go.)

“Yes,” the emperor murmurs. “I did.”

Xie Lian stands there, silent. Unsure of what this conversation will bring, but knowing it isn’t likely to change his predicament.

“You must know that you’re facing conviction.” Jun Wu murmurs, not turning his head.

Xie Lian grits his teeth. “I have a defense, your majesty.”

“Good intentions are not a defense, Xianle,” the reply is quiet, and it makes him flinch. “The road to hell is paved with them.”

He swallows thickly, his hands balled into tight fists behind his back. “It had nothing to do with my intentions,” he mutters.

“There was someone else involved—”

“Bai Wuxiang,” Jun Wu recalls calmly. “You’ve told me.”

“…” Xie Lian’s brows knit together. “Then you should understand. We should be out trying to find him, not wasting time—”

“He will trouble the people of Xianle no more.”

That makes the prince pause.

“What…” He stares at the back of Jun Wu’s head, confusion and frustration boiling inside. “What do you mean?!”

“Calamities are drawn to suffering and pain, Xianle.” Jun Wu stares at the flowers.

The emperor is tired.

“They cannot help it.”

Xie Lian takes a step back, unable to understand what he means. “Are you…sympathetic to him?”

“Of course not,” the emperor shakes his head. “But when a rule is broken, fate will bring a consequence.”

The weight of it is dawning, like a wave beginning to crest.

He can see it, looking down upon him.

And god, he wants to run from it so badly.

“…Are you trying to say that I did this?”

Xie Lian has been called a god of misfortune with increasing frequency in the last few months. A calamity in his own right.

But he never believed it.

Because he knew the truth. He saw the white clothed calamity, standing across the field.

He saw how Lang Ying was protected, over and over again, with the aura of a hero—

For a man who, while complicated, and not entirely a villain—

He wasn’t a hero either. He couldn’t be.

Because if he was, that would make Xie Lian the villain.

That would make him the one who…

His stomach starts falling, and it never stops.

A perfect prince. A perfect son. A perfect god.

“…I didn’t do this,” he croaks, taking another step back.

Jun Wu won’t look at him.

A villain. A curse. A failure.

“We’ll never know what would have been, if you had not interfered.” The emperor murmurs. “But Bai Wuxiang was brought forth, because you did.”

No.

Xie Lian’s hands clap over his mouth.

No, no, no.

He—

All he sees now, are those faces.

Young men, marching to their deaths.

‘To die for the Crown Prince is our greatest honor.’

An honor.

He—

Jun Wu hears the quiet sounds of distress. The tears the young man is shedding, bordering on hyperventilation.

Still, he doesn’t look.

“The punishment will be exile.”

Xie Lian sinks to his knees, hands gripping either side of his head.

How could he have done this?

How could this have been him, when all he ever wanted was to—?

“You will be given a cursed shackle,” Jun Wu continues. “And forced to wander, until when and if you ascend again.”

The prince is barely listening, just trying to breathe, hands trembling.

If…if that was true…

Why didn’t Xie Lian listen, before so many people got hurt?

He—

“But it does not have to be that way,” Jun Wu murmurs. “There is another option.”

Xie Lian stares, tear stricken.

“…There is?”

“Instead of going into outright exile, or losing your godhood, you could choose to make a sacrifice.” Jun Wu explains softly. “A chance to make amends, and start anew.”

Xie Lian pauses, his lips trembling.

“What is it?” He whispers.

“Your name.”

Jun Wu explains calmly. “The new kingdom of Yong’an will still need a martial god, after all. No one needs to know that it’s you.”

Xie Lian listens, frozen and numb.

“A masked martial god would make a rather mysterious sight, people might like it.”

Xie Lian reaches down to touch his cheeks with trembling fingertips.

“Of course,” Jun Wu leans back on one palm, finally turning his head to glance back at Xie Lian’s face, “to be without a name makes one Wu Ming.”

It’s a new life, laid out as a possibility.

Wu Ming, the masked Martial God of the Central Plains.

Slayer of the rotten, cursed Prince of Xianle.

“…And that would be…I could never…go back?” Xie Lian mutters, his cheeks wet.

The emperor watches those tears closely, and he shakes his head.

“It would be permanent.”

Of course, Jun Wu would know who he was. Jun Wu would be the only one allowed to see his face.

Xie Lian doesn’t see the offer as an eternal Guilded cage, as it’s intended to be.

But still, his answer is the same.

“…No,” he croaks, shaking his head. “I can’t do that.”

Jun Wu raises an eyebrow as the crown prince wraps his arms around himself, taking shuddering breaths.

“I would never see my parents again,” Xie Lian whispers. “Or Feng Xin, or Mu Qing. And even if I could…w…wouldn’t taking a new name…be running away from what I did?”

Now, the emperor goes rather still.

“If this is my fault…” Xie Lian swallows thickly, wiping at his tears. “Then let me suffer for it. Let me be punished for it. My—my people’s loss isn’t so cheap, that I could just walk away from the blame.”

For a moment, there is no reply.

Only his ragged, pained breaths. The sniffles accompanying his tears.

Finally, Jun Wu asks—

“You think that’s cowardice?”

Xie Lian doesn’t apply with an affirmative, too lost in his own sorrow.

“Even if that means you will be sealed with a cursed shackle?”

“…If that’s what I deserve,” the prince replies quietly, his head hanging low. Then, after a pause—

“…Then Xianle will accept it the emperor’s punishment,” he whispers, his voice trembling.

Jun Wu stares him down.

“You will suffer,” he reminds him coldly. “It will be hard.”

“…I know.”

Oh, but he couldn’t have known.

Couldn’t have known then, that he would never see his mother and father again with his own eyes.

That he would never again see the sights of his childhood home before they were reduced to ancient ruins.

Couldn’t have known how heartbroken his mother would be, when she saw that he had lost his sight. How painful it would be, to hear how hopeless Mu Qing sounded. Grim, but determined as he helped the royal family adjust to a…different standard of living.

He couldn’t have known that it would hurt even more, listening to Feng Xin remaining hopeful in spite of it.

Believing that Xie Lian could ascend again, in spite of it.

And in that moment, alone in the dark, Xie Lian, the God Pleasing Crown Prince of Xianle, realized something:

That he no longer believed in himself.

Given the breadth and the depth of his destruction, how could he?

No, no.

He—

He isn’t perfect. He isn’t all powerful, and he isn’t all knowing.

Xie Lian, in the end, is just a human.

He was born human, and he rose as a human.

And when he fell again—

He was so painfully, bitterly human.

And so, rather than becoming a burden on his friends, a burden on his parents—he chooses to be alone.

Because that is what he deserves. That is all he deserves.

But…

There is still someone watching over him.

The bandages over his eyes create a natural disguise—and there are days when he’s lucky, and people decide to offer charity. Enough for him to have a hot meal.

What little remains of his skills from cultivation allows him to navigate somewhat—enough for menial work.

People let him help with the harvest, tend to farm animals—but that work comes and goes.

Eventually he finds one of his own shrines in a remote village, worn down and abandoned.

It feels fitting.

Local farmers give him work—and when they can’t, he goes hungry.

He used to spend many nights hungry as a child, refusing food due to his delicate palette—but this is different.

This is cold, gnawing hunger—laying on the floor of his shrine, waiting for sleep to spare him from the ache.

But then…someone starts bringing food.

The first time he wakes up with a plate of fruit beside his head, he’s too hungry to wonder. Maybe a farmer took pity, sent one of his children out to leave a lame beggar something to eat.

He devours them with little pride, even the berries that he used to loathe as a child.

But every morning, there’s a plate.

Often in the evenings too, when he returns from a day of working himself to the bone in the fields.

Fruits. Meats. When there’s bread, Xie Lian sheds a few grateful tears.

After weeks of this—his curiosity gets the best of him.

But the first time he tries to speak—the creature runs from him.

Scrambling off blindly into this dark, frightening void. Leaving Xie Lian alone, again.

Oh, but he can’t bear it, even if he knows that he deserves it.

He pleads for the stranger to stay. To come closer.

Eventually, he does.

A young man.

Skinny, stubborn—but endlessly kind.

Constantly thinking of Xie Lian, over himself. Offering the prince cares and gestures that he doesn’t deserve, over and over again.

All when Xie Lian is—

Is nothing.

He’s /nothing./

Still, the boy does so much for him.

‘I can’t do anything for you,’ Xie Lian reminds him. ‘I can’t give you anything.’

Oh, and the reply is so innocent, while holding so much depth.

“I don’t want anything.”

Still, the boy prays to him.

‘I can’t answer,’ Xie Lian warns him.

“That isn’t why I pray.”

And of course, eventually—he tells the god that there was a time when he did answer. A time when the child was asking for a reason.

“…And what answer did I give?”

Oh, if only he could have heard it then, the tenderness in the young man’s voice.

He did, however, hear the smile.

“You.”

That was when Xie Lian knew.

Kneeling in that old, forgotten shrine. Staring blindly into the dark, eyes wide as he whispered that name. The name that would, for the rest of his time on this earth, be carved into his soul.

“…Hong’er?”

Silence followed—and all Xie Lian could hear was the boy's trembling breaths. They sounded a little wet, laden with the occasional sniffle, and eventually—

"...Dianxia remembered me?"

His voice wasn’t smooth, stubborn, or cocky.

It was small, awed—thick with tears.

Xie Lian had assumed the plague took him. 

The fact that it didn't—that means that the small, terrified child that he caught in his arms that day, the boy who clung to him later, bleeding and broken, sobbing that he wasn't cursed—became a killer.

Xie Lian failed to protect him.

And he would fail again.

He would fail over, and over, and over again.

Never knowing that his Hong’er—his handsome, brave Hong’er, would come back to him each and every time. Because that is who he is.

He’s the one who, against every obstacle, always comes back.

That is what he was born to do.

All Xie Lian has to do, in the end, is wait for him. Even when he doesn’t know it. Even when that waiting only feels like suffering, it never is.

Waiting is part of growing.

And that hurts, sometimes.

In that moment, couldn’t explain what he felt.

That even now, when he was nothing, when he could offer nothing, he was still something that brought someone else’s life meaning.

That even when the Crown Prince was worthless, he was still Hong’er’s reason to remain in this world.

"I remember you," he whispered, lips trembling.

Xie Lian found something in himself that he thought was gone—worn away with every mistake he had made.

Faith.

His arms opened, and the child was hesitant—but eventually, he fell into them, his body trembling with silent sobs.

He wasn’t alone—his god was shedding tears of his own. Slipping from underneath the bandages over his eyes, making shining paths down his cheeks as he held his Hong-er in his arms.

"I remember you," he whispered again, voice breaking as Hong-er clung to him.

I remember you.

I remember you.

I will always, for as long as I live, remember you.

Remember that name, crying out for him through the centuries, with no hope of an answer. Unwittingly imitating his love’s form of prayer.

Hong’er.

His Hong’er.

His handsome, brave—

⏳ PRESENT ⌛️

He sits up sharply, disoriented by the dark.

He always is, when he wakes after a dream.

But he knows where he is. Surrounded by the familiar sounds and smells of the shrine around him.

Their shrine.

His breaths are slow, and ragged.

Xie Lian has never been able to remember his dreams. Not since his first banishment.

But sometimes, when he knows he was dreaming about him—he wishes that he could.

Still.

He reaches for the chain around his neck, pulling gently.

A ring lands against his palm. Unforgiving metal, cool to the touch.

The prince of Xianle brings it to his lip, kissing the face gently.

“Good Morning, Hong’er,” he whispers, letting out a slow breath. “It’s going to be a good day.”

He just has to deal with his cousin, first.

“…” his head slowly turns toward the back exit of the shrine, and he scowls.

He can still hear him, after all.

“When…when I get out of this—!”

Angry, screeching. Like a small, agitated dog.

But no cute little ears, unfortunately—so he has no redeeming qualities.

“Ruoye.” Xie Lian calls out coldly, rising to his feet. “Make him be quiet.”

He cuts off with a strangled squeak, and when Xie Lian hears the child stir, he sighs.

His name is Guzi, and he’s five years old. Xie Lian learned as much, toting Qi Rong back from Mount Taicang.

Obviously, Xie Lian wasn’t going to slaughter Qi Rong in front of a child.

He thought about it. A younger version of him would have done it.

No, he’ll just have to find a way to get him out of this body, then he can deal with him properly.

But for now, he kneels down, offering a gentle smile, gently ruffling the boy’s hair. “Don’t worry, little one. You can sleep a little longer. We’ll have breakfast later.”

He nods off with a tired mumble, and Xie Lian’s expression turns cold once more.

When he steps outside, there’s a familiar, quiet creaking.

His hand reaches out, snatching Qi Rong’s ankle to stop him from spinning too much in the air.

“You know, it’s been a while since I was that angry,” Xie Lian admits. “But I have a question for you.”

He snaps his fingers—not the way he usually commands Ruoye, but there was something satisfying at the way Hua Cheng signaled his chains in the gambler’s den.

When he does, Qi Rong is unceremoniously dropped to the ground from the branch he was hanging on.

The moment he can speak, he’s swearing and grumbling, rubbing at his throat. “Arrogant asshole-!”

“The dead bodies in the trees,” Xie Lian questions coldly. “Were you really trying to imitate Crimson Rain, or was that intended to taunt me?”

“…” Qi Rong rubs his Adam’s apple, glaring. “I figured you would have known that the moment you heard the stories about me.”

Xie Lian picks at his cuticles. “I hadn’t heard of you until a couple of weeks ago, and even then—I didn’t realize it was you until last night.”

The ghost sputters, sitting up on the ground. “How the fuck did you not know?!”

“You really aren’t relevant enough to take up much space in conversation,” Xie Lian shrugs. “And I didn’t think you would be stupid enough to use your real name.”

Qi Rong scowls, then sighs, because…

“…Well, how was I supposed to know all of these fuckers were using fake names until recently, huh?! Even Hua Cheng! I had no fuckin’ idea, that sly piece of shit!”

Xie Lian raises an eyebrow. “What are you talking about?”

“…” And just like that, the creature goes from scowling to grinning from ear to ear, snickering, “HA! I couldn’t say if I wanted to! It’s funny though, SO FUNNY!”

Xie Lian’s eye twitches slightly, fighting the desire to string him up again.

“…Say, what’s that thing you’re wearing?” Qi Rong’s eyes drift down to the chain around Xie Lian’s neck, glinting with curiosity. “Looks cursed, something REAL fowl, you should just give it to your good ol’ couSIN—!”

He reaches for it, but a fist hits his cheek first.

The blow is so forceful, his head makes a small dent in the tree trunk behind him, and while Xie Lian shakes out his fist, he comments,

“You know, while I have no intention of stopping you, you should know—I can see your spiritual energy. I know you’re here.”

Qi Rong stops in the middle of his wails of protest, glancing up—

Just to see a familiar pair of eyes staring down at him, one burning, one green.

“…HOLY FUCK! STAY AWAY FROM ME!” He shrieks scrambling back, and…

Hiding behind his cousin, of all people.

Shuo sighs, his hair trailing beneath him from where he’s hanging upside down on a tree branch, his hands dangling where Qi Rong’s throat was just a moment before.

“…Hua Chengzhu didn’t tell me that,” he admits, crossing his arms. “Sorry for trying to sneak up on you.”

“I’m not offended,” Xie Lian shrugs, stepping away from Qi Rong, effectively refusing to shield him. “You can do whatever you like with him, but I need to get him out of this mortal’s body first.”

Shuo drops down, landing lightly on his feet. “I figured as much.”

Xie Lian raises an eyebrow. “You knew he was in another body already?”

“He abandoned his old one when I was arguing with Prince Shit for Brains,” Shuo shrugs. “So, I figured. I’m not looking to kill him, either.”

He strides forward, bending over to examine Qi Rong’s new form.

“I had a plan for dealing with the body switch too, but…” He frowns, “That got more complicated.”

“Oh?” Xie Lian didn’t expect it to be easy, but he’s relieved there was an option in the first place.

“Hua Chengzhu showed you his armory, yes?”

“He did,” he agrees, feeling somewhat…sheepish, remembering how the evening concluded.

Shuo leans back against the Qi Rong shaped dent in the tree, which seems to quickly heal under his touch, bark knitting back together.

“And he showed you Zidian?”

Xie Lian nods, quirking an eyebrow. “Do you mean to torture him?”

“Oh,” Shuo blinks, his eyes widening—then, he lets out a surprised laugh, shaking his head. “No, no, dianxia, that’s not my style—but we’ve used Zidian on him before.”

The mere mention makes Qi Rong shudder.

“Y-YOU THINK I GIVE A SHIT?! YOU CAN SMACK ME AROUND AS MUCH AS YOU WANT, I’LL COME BACK!”

The forest demon rolls his eyes, explaining, “It removes any spirit unlawfully possessing a human body.”

Xie Lian’s eyes widen, impressed.

San Lang built something as elegant as that?

“You make it sound as though that wouldn’t work in this case, though.”

“Oh, it would,” Shuo sighs. “But when I was putting the armory back together…”

Xie Lian winces.

Right.

After he inadvertently blew the entire thing up.

“…Zidian was the only weapon that was missing.”

“Missing?” Xie Lian mutters, his stomach plummeting from the guilt.

It wouldn’t be, if he hadn’t been so foolish.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, I never meant…”

“Don’t apologize, dianxia,” Shuo shakes his head. “Not your fault a thief decided to take advantage. It’s being handled.”

He glances back down at Qi Rong, his eyes narrowed. “Given that someone else is hunting him now as well, I sent subordinates to look for the whip, and I came to find him.”

Xie Lian winces at the reminder of his former student. “I’m sorry about him…”

The demon shrugs.

“He’s an annoyance, not an obstacle.”

Xie Lian nods, relieved. Lang Qianqiu certainly isn’t weak. He’s martial god of an entire region, after all. But someone strong enough to nearly be a calamity—not a mere honorary position, like Qi Rong—should be able to handle him easily.

The prince sinks into thought for a moment, contemplating the predicament, and finally, he asks—

“Can you cook?”

Qi Rong slams his fists against the ground angrily, “What, YOU’VE CAPTURED ME, AND NOW I’M A FUCKING SERVANT?! I—!”

“Not you—Ruoye, gag him.” Xie Lian sighs.

The spiritual tool wriggles slightly with distaste, but it obeys the command—all while Shuo tilts his head, surprised.

“…You mean me, your highness?”

“Well…” Xie Lian sighs.

“The body he’s stolen—the man has a young son. I’m afraid they’re a package deal until you’re able to remove Qi Rong from that body.”

Shuo grits his teeth, glaring at the ghost with dismay. “But what does that have to do with—?”

“I don’t think I can submit a child to my cooking in cook conscience,” Xie Lian explains, remembering the way Banyue used to vomit up anything he tried to give her. “So, if you could make him breakfast, I’d be grateful.”

“…” Shuo looks up at the sky with a heavy sigh. “I can.”

Then, he looks down at himself—the pointed ears, mismatched eyes, and sharp teeth, knowing that isn’t exactly a comforting sight for a human child, so…

He spins on his heel, shifting into a slightly less intimidating form.

Hazel eyes, a loose ponytail, simple robes.

They begin to move inside, and Xie Lian can’t help but ask, “Oh, Ren Song?”

“Hm?”

“Do you happen to know San Lang’s Daruma Doll spell?”

It’s much more convenient than making poor Ruoye gag him, after all.

“Oh…I do,” the demon agrees. “But I’m not allowed to use it anymore.”

“Not allowed?” Xie Lian bites back a smile.

“Well,” Shuo deposits Qi Rong rather unceremoniously in the corner after dragging him in by the collar, “I turned someone into one without Hua Chengzhu’s permission, and he was pretty angry.”

“…I see.”

The prince sits down at one of the chairs by the table. “Was it someone important?”

“Uh…” Shuo pushes his bangs behind his ears, kneeling down to examine the ingredients the shrine has to offer. “Yeah, he’s a valued employee, I guess.”

Xie Lian leans his chin on his hand.

There’s something about him—the arrogant, slightly childish nature—that he finds amusing. Endearing.

“And why did you turn him into a Daruma doll, exactly?”

Shuo hums, placing what he needs on the counter, beginning to chop come vegetables. “I think it was just for fun.”

Xie Lian can’t help but let out a surprised laugh, and the ghost smiles, adding—

“But I was pretty drunk at the time, so I’m not sure what the reasoning was.”

That’s surprising to hear.

“I had no idea ghosts could get drunk…” He murmurs, eyes wide.

A pot is set out to boil.

“If you’re enough of a go-getter about it, sure you can.”

Xie Lian smiles, thinking back slightly less fondly on the times in his life when he actually has been drunk, and he sighs, trying to turn his attention to something slightly less…depressing.

“…You’ve been very accommodating,” Xie Lian comments, toying with the chain hanging around his neck. “I’m grateful.”

He isn’t used to people being helpful as a rule. San Lang’s generosity is much more noticeable, and it takes getting used to.

“…” Shuo shrugs.

“You’re a friend of Hua Chengzhu,” he mutters, focusing on the task at hand. “That’s reason enough to lend a hand.”

He knows his place, after all.

Besides, their interests are aligned.

Xie Lian nods, and after a few minutes of companionable silence, he realizes…

Something has been bothering him. For a while now. Ever since returning from Mount Yu Jun, actually.

“Could I ask you about something?”

Shuo glances back at him, raising an eyebrow, but he nods. “About what?”

“…Calamities,” Xie Lian’s fingers tighten around the chain.

Shuo doesn’t reply immediately, simply waits to see what his question will be, bringing the pot of rice to a simmer.

“…Crimson Rain and Black Water came from the Kiln,” Xie Lian reasons slowly.

“Yes,” Shup agrees, stirring the mixture with a set of chopsticks. “I was there.”

Xie Lian raises an eyebrow—curious. After all—he knew Ren Song was older than he seemed, but…

That’s far more ancient than he had guessed.

“Do you know anything about Bai Wuxiang?” He finally asks, not seeing how the forest demon’s hands go still.

His eyes flicker over to Qi Rong, glaring and squirming in the corner—but he doesn’t seem to care much for their conversation, focusing on his own misery.

“…He was the first calamity, and he destroyed the kingdom of Xianle. I figured you would already know all about him.”

Of course, Xie Lian does. Parts of him, anyway.

“…In the last month, it’s become clear the Heavens…misunderstand quite a bit about the ghost realm,” Xie Lian mutters. “And it made me question something that someone once told me.”

“Well, you’re right about that, dianxia.”

Shuo sets the chopsticks down, leaving the food to simmer. “The heavens haven’t bothered to gather accurate information about the ghost realm.”

That way, they can maintain a combative stance, anyway.

“What did they tell you, anyway?”

Xie Lian frowns, picking at his sleeve.

“…That calamities are drawn to pain and suffering,” he recalls quietly. “That they can’t resist it.”

Shuo frowns, resting his hands against the counter. “You’ve spent some time with a calamity now. Did he seem unable to control himself to you?”

“Of course not,” Xie Lian shakes his head. Actually—Hua Cheng seemed far more in control of himself than most people Xie Lian has ever met.

“Then you already have your answer,” the ghost shrugs, pulling the pot off of the stove.

“I’ve known him for pretty much my entire life,” he adds, glancing over in Xie Lian’s direction, his gaze…complicated.

“There’s only one thing he can’t resist.”

And from the sounds of it—Shuo isn’t talking about suffering.

Xie Lian’s eyebrows quirk, confused.

“…What—?”

But then he stops, his head whipping to the side, detecting movement. “…Did you hear that?”

Shuo tilts his chin up. “Yeah,” he places a lid on the pot, leaving it on the counter to keep. “There’s a man on your ceiling. Looks like he’s trying to steal a pickle jar.”

Xie Lian gawks, turning his head up, and—

He can’t see any aura at all, heavenly or demonic. But there’s only one person that would want to steal something like that.

“…Pei Junior?! Put Banyue down! And—” He glances over at Shuo, “Did you already know he was here?”

The demon shrugs, watching the former heavenly official with slitted pupils, like a cat observing a moth on the ceiling. “I’ll be honest, given what I’ve seen of your life so far, I didn’t know what would be out of the ordinary for you. So, I went along with it.”

“…”

…That is depressingly logical.

“I see.”

“Would you like me to deal with him?” Shuo murmurs, licking his lips.

There’s something about that tone Xie Lian finds worrisome. “Pei Junior—you had better get down here, before he…ah…”

He looks to Shuo, who smiles.

“We’ll have to take it outside, if it comes to that. No need to scare the kid, right?”

He stares down Pei Xiu, who slowly—reluctantly—drops down to the ground.

Guzi sits up with a start, frightened by the sudden arrival of strangers.

“…Daddy!”

Shuo’s expression turns irritated as he watches the child flee to Qi Rong’s side. “That isn’t…”

Xie Lian shrugs, holding his hands up, exasperated. “I’ve told him. Now—you, put the jar down, now!”

“…” Pei Xiu sighs, going to set the jar down, but just as he does…

Instead of landing on the table, it flies through the air—only to be caught by the figure standing in the open doorway of the shrine

“Pei Xiu,” a voice rings out, irritated. “I’m disappointed.”

At first, Xie Lian is suspended.

“…General Ming Guang?!”

And then, he’s irritated

Exactly when did his shrine become a tourist destination, anyway?

Whatever he might feel about it, however, Pei Xiu is the one hanging his head with shame.

(Not for trespassing. Simply for the fact that his general caught him in the act.)

“Throwing your career away for a little girl…” General Pei grits his teeth, shaking his head. “And then trying to make things worse by stealing her away?”

From Xie Lian’s side, Shuo raises an eyebrow sharply, crossing his arms.

“Little girl?” He questions dryly.

“They’re the same age.” He glances towards Pei Xiu, sending him an unimpressed look. “Is he a little boy?”

Xie Lian is almost surprised to hear him take up for Banyue, but then he remembers witnessing Shuo looking after children in Paradise Manor.

Back then, Banyue was likely one of them.

And in the interest of accuracy, Pei Xiu was three years her senior in their mortal lives. But in three centuries, that difference has become quite negligible.

Immortality tends to complicate comparisons of maturity, anyhow.

Xie Lian is older than Mu Qing by a few months, for example--but he no longer considers himself the martial god's senior.

Because, in his mind, he lost a century of life experiences. Memories. Locked underground, trapped in dreams and torment.

In a literal sense, he might be eight hundred and twenty four years old. But in a practical sense, he's only lived seven centuries of that.

Making him literally eight centuries old, mentally seven centuries, and physically...

Maybe twenty, give or take.

Funny enough, Hong'er might have been seven years younger, but if he had lived up until now--he might feel older than him too.

"He's certainly acting like a little boy," Pei Ming glares, startling Xie Lian from his thoughts.

"So yes, I think we have two unruly children on our hands."

There's something different about him. He's clearly more on edge now, than he was the last time Xie Lian spoke with him.

"At least now I can interrogate the preceptor and learn her true involvement," he mutters.

"...Let's not be so hasty," Xie Lian cuts him off flatly.

It's in that moment when Pei Ming seems to notice the fact that the prince's posture has gone stiff, one hand resting over the hilt of fangxin.

"Come on now, your highness, I'm not arresting her."

The general points out. "Do you really think I would harm a young lady?"

"Not a young lady," Shuo mutters, rolling his eyes--and now, he finally seems to warrant Ming Guang's attention.

"...Your highness, who's the kid?"

The forest demon's eyebrow twitches.

Xie Lian smiles awkwardly, answering before the younger man can, "His name is Shuo, and he's a friend of mine. Now, could you please put Banyue down, and we can talk about this reasonably?"

"I'll tell you what," Pei mutters, tugging at the lid.

“How about I let her out of this thing, and we can all have that conversation together?”

Xie Lian opens his mouth to protest—not that Pei has given Xie Lian much of a reason to think he would lie, but the prince is no longer quick to trust, either—

/BOOM!/

The minute the lid lifts off of the jar, there's an explosion of air rushing out from the inside, covering Pei Ming in...

Pickles.

The scent is so strong, Xie Lian has to cover his mouth to stop himself from gagging, and he hears a familiar voice.

"So, THIS is how the Great General of the North behaves when he thinks no one is around to stop him?"

Ah.

Xie Lian rubs his temple, wishing he could go back to bed already.

Lady Wind Master is here as well. They might as well call it a party.

Pei seems just as irritated.

"What are you doing here?!"

Shi Qingxuan appears in a puff of pastel green smoke, fanning herself haughtily. "Well, as any good friend would do, I relocated Banyue during the crisis upon our return to Ghost City. I thought you might try and pull a stunt like this."

Oh.

Xie Lian blinks, surprised.

That was actually remarkably considerate.

(And he does smile a little bit, hearing someone refer to him as a friend.)

"And what have you done with the girl, may I ask?! You can't just hide her away on your own!"

Shi Qingxuan smiles, smug.

"Oh, I don't mind telling you exactly where I put her," the Wind Master smiles sweetly, turning her gaze to Xie Lian. "Miss Banyue is currently residing under the protection of the Rain Master, Yushi Huang. She's welcome to leave whenever she likes."

Shi Qingxuan snaps her fan shut, smirking in Pei Ming's direction, "If you'd like to try and retrieve her, you're welcome to do so."

"..." Pei grits his teeth, and Xie Lian finds himself...somewhat curious about the tension around the Rain Master's name.

"Shi Qingxuan...why are you always involving yourself?" He mutters, shaking his head.

After all, it's not as though he's ever done anything to offend the Wind Master personally.

Other than take up an iota of his brother's attention, anyway.

Speaking of...

"...Aren't you supposed to be with your brother right now, anyway?" He mutters, scratching the side of his head. "How come you have time to cause trouble down here?"

Shi Qingxuan pauses, her lips parting. "...I thought gege was with you," she mutters, eyes narrowing.

She's suspicious, naturally. "Are you trying to distract me from the point? Because if so, it isn't working."

"..." Pei presses his lips into a grin line, his body rife with tension, and...

Xie Lian speaks up, his voice quiet--but firm. "That's enough, both of you."

Both gods stop, looking in his direction, and the prince crosses his arms. “Whatever personal dispute the two of you have, now isn’t the time or place. Honestly, you’re just as bad as Feng Xin and Mu Qing.”

The comparison makes both Pei Ming and Shi Qingxuan cringe.

“I’m not interested in having something with the Wind Master that could even be considered remotely close to that dynamic,” Pei grouses.

“My brother would kill you if you did,” Shi Qingxuan agrees, her pallor slightly green.

…Xie Lian blinks.

“I don’t understand—?”

“We’ll be going,” Pei mutters, grabbing his former deputy by the collar. “But don’t think this is the last you’ll hear from me about this.”

Xie Lian tilts his head.

That was a rather abrupt change of time. And right after…

Once the other two are gone, Shi Qingxuan sighs.

“I’m sorry about that, your highness—but he shouldn’t trouble you over the girl again. He and the Rain Master have a…complicated past.”

Xie Lian raises an eyebrow. He considers himself to be in good terms with the Rain master—even if they’ve never met in person.

And from what he remembers—she isn’t the sort to be on bad terms with anyone.

“…I’m the one who should be sorry,” Xie Lian sighs. “You’ve had to go to do much trouble for me over the last few days…”

“Huh? Trouble?” she grins lopsidedly. “It was no such thing! Besides…”

Shi Qingxuan reaches out, placing a hand on his shoulder and squeezing it gently. “You helped me rescue Ming-Xiong,” she explains quietly. “I’ll never forget that.”

“…” Xie Lian’s lips turn up slightly at the corners. “The friendship the two of you have seems quite special.”

The Wind Master looks up for a moment, shaking her head with a small smile.

“…I’ve always made friends easily, but as far as those close to me…it’s always been just me and gege,” she explains. “And he would do anything for me.”

(If only she knew to what extent.)

“Ming-Xiong might be rough around the edges, but…he doesn’t treat me like a baby,” she shrugs. “He makes me feel like I can handle things on my own.”

Which is an important relationship to have. The closest Xie Lian ever came to having someone like that was probably Mu Qing.

Still, Xie Lian was seventeen at that point. The fact that Shi Qingxuan only made that sort of connection as a goddess--over four centuries old, to boot--gives him slight pause.

...Just how much has the Water Master sheltered her, anyway?

In any case, Xie Lian smiles, replying;

"...If there's anything I've learned since meeting you, Lady Wind Master, it's that you are quite capable."

That makes her brighten, eyes crinkling happily at the corners.

"Oh--and if you're looking for Lang Ying, I had him brought to my palace for safe keeping. I'll have him sent back down at once, if you like."

"That would be appreciated," Xie Lian smiles gratefully. "Thank you, for..." He struggles to phrase it, and Shi Qingxuan laughs.

"Like I said, while I have many friends, few of them are close, but you..." She squeezes Xie Lian's arm once more. "I have a feeling we were fated to be friends. I've got your back your highness, don't worry!"

There's something undeniably naive about that statement, but...

There’s an undeniable warmth in Xie Lian’s chest.

“Well, if you ever need my help,” he shrugs, knowing the offer probably isn’t good for much, “you have it.”

But in the end…Xie Lian’s help is worth more than he thinks.

Shi Qingxuan smiles, glancing over Xie Lian’s shoulder at Shuo, who has taken to calming Guzi down, helping the little boy eat his breakfast. “That boy…he works for Hua Cheng, doesn’t he?”

Xie Lian shrugs, scratching the side of his head as he glances back in Shuo’s direction. “Not…exactly. The dynamic is somewhat complicated. But he’s a friend of mine.”

“…” Shi Qingxuan nods, accepting the explaination without question. “I should be heading back.”

After all, she needs to figure out where exactly her brother went off to, if he isn’t with Pei. It’s been three entire days.

“But you will be coming to the mid-autumn festival, won’t you?” Shi Qingxuan adds, pulling out her whisk. “It’ll be no fun without you!”

Xie Lian hesitates.

Of course, the idea of going to the yearly celebration isn't particularly compelling, but he can't afford not to.

He isn't the Rain Master, who has a reputation for keeping to herself. He isn't Ming Yi, who was on assignment fo years at a time.

And he certainly isn't the Water Master, who, it seems, has the freedom to contradict even Jun Wu whenever he likes.

He isn't anyone important at all. Certainly not important enough to cause a scene by refusing the invitation.

So, he'll have to go.

But luckily for him, the festival is weeks away.

Much needed time to take a breath, doing work around the shrine, helping the villagers with the harvest.

To his surprise, Shuo stays for the majority of that time, taking his job monitoring Qi Rong somewhat seriously.

He'll cook meals for Guzi, and after mistakenly accepting Xie Lian's offer to cook lunch one day, has artfully dodged repeating that error again.

What he didn't expect was how...peaceful that time would feel.

Qi Rong spends his days forcibly silenced by Ruoye, or pinned underneath Dian Dian (whom Xie Lian must admit, is exceedingly adorable. He can't picture the creature ripping anyone's leg off, it's impossible to imagine.)

Shuo spends his time attempting to psychologically torment Qi Rong out of the human's body (usually by taking him out into the woods for several hours at a time--Xie Lian hasn't witnessed the demon's magic yet, but he has heard the distant screaming.)

When he isn't doing that, he's helping with menial tasks, not so different from San Lang did, before.

Or flirting with the girls in the village, very different from what San Lang did, before.

Actually...

Xie Lian stops one afternoon, halfway through a new silk pattern.

Oddly enough, despite his playful, cocky nature, Xie Lian hasn't seen Hua Cheng behave that way with anyone. Well, other than him.

Is he only that way with his friends? Or is there someone...

"..." Xie Lian's fingers drift to the chain around his neck, pondering.

Does it really matter, if that's the case? After all, he's not...

Shuo leans against the doorway, crossing his arms, watching the change in Xie Lian's posture.

"Something bothering you, your highness?"

Xie Lian jumps, nearly dropping his threads.

"...No," he mutters.

“No, I just…”

He bites his lip, knowing that it’s a silly question, so he puts it from his mind.

Nonetheless, Shuo is still watching expectantly, so…

“Does San Lang not mind you staying away for this long?”

“…” The boy scowls, sitting down with a huff. “He isn’t my dad.”

He turns his head to the side, staring at the pattern Xie Lian was working on. “He doesn’t always keep up with what I’m doing.”

Xie Lian doesn’t say so, but he isn’t sure how there’s much of a practical difference between their relationship with parenthood.

“I was only asking since you mentioned being grounded,” he murmurs, punctuating that statement with a shrug.

Shuo can’t help but blush a little at that, pink splotches popping up across his cheeks. “That was different,” he mutters.

“And he said you couldn’t use the Daruma spell—”

“He’s a ghost king, alright! He’s the boss of everyone, not just me!” Shuo crows, and, as a point of how mature he is—definitely not a child in Hua Cheng’s care—he flops down on his back, kicking his feet against the floor.

“Stop laughing!”

Xie Lian covers his mouth, shoulders shaking.

“I’m not, I’m not…”

“…The point being,” Shuo concludes, his hair pooled around his head on the floor, “He doesn’t care that I’m here, as long as I’m not causing trouble.” Then, after a pause. “…Am I?”

“No, no…” Xie Lian shakes his head, not missing the relieved little sigh Shuo let’s out in response. “I guess I was just wondering…what he was up to, that’s all.”

“…What Hua Cheng is up to?” Shuo’s eyebrows quirk. “Dealing with some renovations I think. Why?”

Renovations.

Xie Lian pauses to contemplate that for only a moment, before remembering—

Yes, well, when half of the place got burned down last time, he would probably need to renovate a thing or two, wouldn’t he?

“…I was just curious,” he mutters, going back to his work.

Shuo sits up on his elbows, a slightly sly smile twisting his lips as he watches the god work. “You want to see him?” He comments, not missing the way Xie Lian’s fingers work slightly faster on the loom.

“He already knows he’s welcome here whenever he likes,” the prince replies.

After all, the last time they were alone together—really alone, here, in Puqi shrine—the ghost king told Xie Lian there were two reasons that he could have approached him on Mount Yu Jun:

1) Just to see him, or

2) because he was bored.

Now that he’s busy, it seems obvious.

“I’d love to see him, but not if that means interfering with his business.”

Xie Lian stops after, pressing his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

He’d ‘love’ to see him? Isn’t that a bit much?

Shuo sits up fully, legs crossed, hands propped against the floor behind him.

“…” His gaze drifts over to the silk that Xie Lian is working on, and he tilts his head. “What’s that for?”

“Ah…” Xie Lian glances back at his loom with a shrug. “There’s a festival in the heavens that I’m required to attend.”

“And you have to dress fancy?”

“Precisely.”

“…Hua Chengzhu’s got all sorts of fancy clothes,” Shuo comments, adding airily, “I bet lot’s of it is in your size, too.”

Xie Lian can’t imagine why. Hua Cheng seems quite a bit taller and broader. Unless—

Unless he’s keeping them for someone else.

Xie Lian frowns, then replies:

“Oh, but I’m accustomed to making my own, by now…”

After all, he’s been doing it for the last eight centuries.

Shuo doesn’t argue him that point, pulling one leg up against his chest. “I heard you used to sell this sort of thing>”

Xie Lian nods agreeably, his fingers working quickly but gracefully as he finishes out the pattern. “It’s helped me get by.”

‘Get by,’ is right. From Shuo’s perception, the prince has consistently underpriced his work over the centuries.

“I could make you something sometime, if you’d like,” Xie Lian offers, making the ghost’s eyes widen with surprise.

“…Me?” He questions, sitting up a little straighter. “Why?”

“Oh…we’re friends now, aren’t we?” Xie Lian glances back with a smile. “Isn’t that reason enough?”

“…” Shuo pulls up his other leg, wrapping his arms around his shins with a nod, glancing over to the open doorway.

Guzi is playing in front of the shrine, chasing around Qi Qi, who occasionally stops and turns around on his hind legs, chirping excitedly as the child giggles.

“…And,” Xie Lian adds, glancing over to where Qi Rong is bound and gagged in the corner, “my cousin has caused you quite a bit of trouble over the years. It’s the least I can do.”

Trouble is an understatement, but Shuo shrugs.

“That isn’t your fault, dianxia, but…”

He glances back and forth between the two. Of course, there is a physical resemblance between the prince and Qi Rong’s original physical form. Both good looking, but one…significantly more so. And taller.

“It’s hard to believe you two grew up in the same house, to be honest.”

Xie Lian is quiet for a moment, working until he finishes the bolt of silk, and when he speaks—he chooses his words carefully.

“…My mother was a strong woman, you know,” The prince murmurs, smoothing the fabric out across the floor. “But in a quiet sort of way.”

There was never any need to make displays of strength. Simply quiet confidence.

‘So,’ Shuo thinks to himself, watching the prince quietly, ‘you take after her.’

“But my aunt…” Xie Lian trails off with a sigh. “They rarely ever saw eye to eye on things.”

It feels so silly now, remembering the things that they used to argue about.

Politics, marriages. Who to be friends with, who to avoid.

"She wanted an advantageous marriage, just like my mother's, but one day..." The prince shrugs. "She ran off with a wealthy merchant."

Shuo frowns, picking at a loose thread on his pants. "Is that such an awful thing?"

"If you asked my father, yes." Xie Lian smiles wryly. "A queen's sister marrying a merchant was quite a scandal. But that wasn't the real issue, it..."

His expression darkens.

“My uncle was a vile man,” Xie Lian mutters, his gaze drifting in Qi Rong’s direction. Unable to see the way his cousin squirms with anger and discomfort, but not caring. “He was violent with women and children. A predator.”

And his son grew up to be exactly the same.

“…Did Qi Rong tell you that?” Shuo questions curiously, watching the green ghost’s expression with faint satisfaction.

After all, he doesn’t have a right to privacy. Not after the damage he’s caused.

“…No,” Xie Lian shakes his head.

“My friend worked in their house before he passed away. Between that, and the rumors…I heard enough.”

Enough to know that Qi Rong’s father was a monster.

And the fact that Xie Lian’s aunt returned as a shell of herself, passing away not soon after…

Her husband shattered her.

“…He already had the worst kind of example by the time he came to live with us,” Xie Lian sighs, going back to his work. Now that the actual fabric is done, the act of cutting an sewing the garments is comparatively quick. “And my parents felt so guilty about his mother, they…”

They gave too much leeway to a child who utterly took advantage of every kindness he was given.

And Xie Lian knows better. He doesn't think a childhood marked by cruelty creates a cruel man.

Hong'er taught him better than that.

Qi Rong is vile, because he refuses to change.

"...I had some notion of that before," Shuo admits. "Just from seeing his memories."

Xie Lian turns his chin towards the forest demon, surprised.

"You've...seen Qi Rong's memories?" He mutters, startled.

"Nearly all of them, but his early years are...fuzzier."

Which means, in all likelihood, he saw...Qi Rong's death.

And Hong'er's death, too.

The thought makes Xie Lian's stomach churn, but he fights the urge to show it.

"...You must have expected to meet someone very different, based on his memories alone," the prince mumbles.

"..." The younger man is quiet, watching lighthearted self deprecation, shrouding something much deeper.

Centuries of self loathing.

"...No," Shuo murmurs, reaching up to twist an earring beneath his fingertips, a small bell tinkling softly as he does.

"He took someone I loved from me too, dianxia," the demon reminds him quietly. "I know how it feels."

...Yes.

Xie Lian swallows hard, hit suddenly by the realization that...

Shuo does know how it feels. Exactly how it feels, actually.

To lose someone so dear, then live on.

And on, and on.

“…I didn’t have any expectations for what you would be like,” Shuo explains carefully, fidgeting as he chooses his words, “because no one deserves to be judged for their grief.”

Xie Lian is quiet, allowing those words to wash over him.

It’s…complicated.

Because on one hand, Xie Lian was grieving. Shuo hasn’t misread that. And his actions then are far removed from the person he is now.

…And still, Xie Lian can’t help but feel as though he deserves to be judged.

“…How were you able to see his memories, anyway?”

Shuo shrugs, reaching down to scratch at a scuff on the toe of his boot. “It’s possible to share memories with those you have a strong connection with, but that isn’t the method I use.”

Xie Lian raises an eyebrow, and the young man leans his chin on his knees.

"Forests are my territory," he explains, a fact that Xie Lian was already aware of, but there's more to it than that clearly, "if I place someone inside an array of mine, regardless of whether or not we have a strong bond, I can access their memories."

Ah. That must be it.

When people say that Ren Song's magic causes 'madness,' well...

Xie Lian can certainly imagine how reliving one's worst memories might drive a person mad.

"...Where did you learn how to--?" Xie Lian stops, glancing toward the front entrance of the shrine.

"..." Shuo glances in the same direction, curious. "What is it?"

Xie Lian doesn't reply--instead he just sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

You see, tracking demonic entities is a bit of a nuanced art, one that takes time to learn. Particularly for someone, well...alive.

First, he had to go through Ling Wen. Who was not particularly helpful. Then, unfortunately for him, he had little luck with gaining intel from the Ghost Realm.

Finally, he resorted to paying a cultivator in Gusu to divine his most recent location, which is what led him here.

To a small, relatively run down shrine in the middle of nowhere.

Still, now that he's close enough, he can sense the demonic energy coming from inside, leaving Lang Qianqiu with little reason not to charge through the front door, sword drawn.

"REVEAL YOURSELF, MONSTER!"

...And then there's no answer.

Well, no immediate answer.

And when he surveys the inside of the shrine, he notices three things:

First and foremost, his guoshi, sitting in front of a loom, looking...exasperated, but by what he couldn't say.

Second, a man gagged in the corner.

Third...a teenage boy, sitting beside his guoshi, with soft cheeks, hazel eyes, and what would be an...objectively attractive face, if not for...

The roaring laughter.

"Oh my GOD!" Shuo cackles, flopping backwards until he's strewn across Xie Lian's lap, kicking his feet.

"He's so fucking EMBARRASSING!"

Xie Lian isn't sure whether he wants to laugh, or cry.

"...Guoshi?" Lang Qianqiu's eyes are slightly wide. "What are you doing here? There's demonic energy all over the place, you..."

Xie Lian's smile is slightly pained.

"I know, thank you..."

Shuo's continued snickering isn't exactly helping the matter.

"Y-You should have seen it!" He wheezes, "He--He POSED!"

The demon sits up, extending one arm in front of him, mimicking holding out a sword, dropping his voice to imitate him;

"REVEAL YOURSELF, MONSTER!"

At this point, he seems to become overwhelmed by the comedy of his own impersonation, slumping back against Xie Lian's lap once more, clutching his stomach and wailing with laughter.

Now, Lang Qianqiu recognizes him, his face twisting with shock and frustration. "...YOU!"

The ghost is laughing so hard, he's practically wheezing--leading to Xie Lian patting his back, trying to help him catch his breath, and Lang Qianqiu practically flails with indignation.

"THIS is where you disappeared to?!"

Shuo sits up in Xie Lian's lap again, breathing hard.

“It’s not my fault that you couldn’t keep up, or that you’re shit at tracking ghosts,” he drawls, “I didn’t even want you following me in the first place!”

“We BOTH have a score to settle with him, you can’t just—!”

“There is no WE!” Shuo glares, eyes flashing.

“You…” Lang Qianqiu growls with frustration, gripping his sword tightly. “Would you get off of him already?!”

“…Hm?” Shuo tilts his head, eyes wide with mock innocence. “What do you mean?”

“A heavenly official doesn’t need a ghost hanging all over him like a—!”

He steps forward to pull him off, and as he does, Ren Song shifts into a smaller form, that of a boy younger than ten years old, flinging his arms around the prince’s neck, hiding his face in his chest, and Xie Lian, well—

He wraps his arms around the ghost.

“Lang Qianqiu!”

He scolds him, his voice turning stern. “Enough!”

His student GAWKS.

“GUOSHI!” He cries, his voice cracking with indignation. “He was the one making fun of me!”

“You don’t have to rise to the bait, do you?”

“And—he’s OLDER than me, apparently!” Lang Qianqiu protests.

“He can’t just turn small to get out of trouble!”

“He’s my guest here,” Xie Lian frowns, hugging one arm around Shuo’s back, using the other to pet his hair. “You’re the one who burst in unannounced.”

Lang Qianqiu huffs, staggered by the injustice of it all.

“Only because I was looking for—!” He stops, his gaze suddenly turning to the third occupant of the shrine—the man in the corner, bound and gagged. “…Is that him?”

“How we sneak anything past the heavens is a miracle,” Shuo comments, his voice dry.

“The observational skills of a martial god are truly inspiring.”

“Shut your—!”

“Quiet, both of you,” Xie Lian mutters, exasperated. “He’s possessed a mortal’s body, so we’re stuck until we find a safe way to remove him without harming the human.”

It’s quite a predicament.

Lang Qianqiu falls silent, his face screwed up with concentration, trying to come up with a course of action, and…

Xie Lian sighs.

“I’m assuming you won’t be leaving until he’s removed from the human’s body either?”

Shuo glares, hugging his neck tighter. “Bad idea, dianxia.”

The younger prince glares right back at him, hands on his hips, “Why is that a bad idea?!”

“Because you’re loud, you’re distracting, and you bring nothing to the table.” Shuo replies dryly.

“H…!” Lang Qianqiu sputters, trying to decide which point to address first.

“…How am I distracting?!”

After a pause, Shuo’s eyes narrow. “Because you’re loud,” he grouses. “Weren’t you paying attention?”

“Hey, I already told you both to stop it,” Xie Lian mutters, lifting a hand from Shuo’s head to rub at his temple. “And he can be helpful.”

“I can!”

“—He can?!”

Xie Lian lifts Shuo out of his lap, setting him down on the ground—to which the ghost shifts back into his adult form out of annoyance.

“Now, you don’t have to look after Qi Rong, Guzi, and Lang Ying by yourself.” Xie Lian shrugs, and Shuo stares.

“I’m not doing it by myself right now!” He protests, watching as Xie Lian stands up, taking his newly finished set of robes with him.

“I’m due in the Heavens. I’m sure Lang Qianqiu won’t mind helping out while I’m gone. Isn’t that right?”

He glances in his student’s direction, and there’s a slightly awkward pause.

Obviously, after the last time they spoke, things were left…slightly tense. After all, he was angry—justifiably so—with Xie Lian for lying to him. And guilty, for what he had done.

Still, he had said the words that, if Xie Lian hadn’t committed the crimes he was accused of after the Gilded Banquet, Lang Qianqiu would, ‘Spend the rest of his life trying to make it up to him,’ so…

“Of course I can,” he mutters, crossing his arms, jaw locked—determined.

“See? There you go.” Xie Lian shrugs, stepping behind the changing screen. “There’s no reason you can’t work together while I’m gone, is there?”

“It’s not about can or can’t…” Shuo mutters.

It’s more that they don’t NEED to.

“Shouldn’t he go to the Heavens with you, anyway?”

“No,” Xie Lian shakes his head. “Jun Wu expects him to be searching after Qi Rong, so he won’t be expected. Unless he wants to come, in which case…”

“No,” Lang Qianqiu shakes his head, crossing his arms. “I won’t be letting him out of my sight until he’s been dealt with.”

The mere implication—that he might be dealing with the Crown Prince of Yong’an indefinitely—makes Shuo cringe with distaste.

“Then it seems fairly simple to me,” Xie Lian murmurs, shrugging out of his old robes.

Of course, only the shadow of his form can be seen behind the screen, but Lang Qianqiu still looks away politely, while Shuo rolls his eyes, examining his sharpening fingernails.

“Neither of you are obligated to stay, but I have custody of Qi Rong and Guzi,” the prince explains.

“So, neither of you can force the other to leave, either.”

It seems fair to him. Lang Qianqiu doesn’t protest the matter either, seeming to find the conclusion reasonable.

Shuo, on the other hand, looks like he would rather be force fed shards of glass.

After adjusting his robes around his body, seeing that the fit is correct, and running a comb through his hair—Xie Lian steps out, staring blindly in the direction of the two younger men.

“Is there anything else?”

For a moment, both of them stare.

It’s not like Shuo of all people should be surprised. After all, he watched Xie Lian make the robes in the first place.

And yet…

It can be startling, watching the god shift from the plain, unadorned white robes of a cultivator, to something so…

Elegant. Ethereal.

The silk itself is rather simple, compared to other patterns he’s made in the past, but woven so finely, it almost seems to shine.

More surprising for Lang Qianqiu is the fact that…

He doesn’t think he’s ever seen his Guoshi wearing red before.

But in this case, the inner layer of the robes Xie Lian is wearing are…distinctly red.

Or, more accurately, crimson, with the outer layer being more similar to his usual white, with the light outline of a floral pattern along the hem.

Even his hair is slightly different.

Instead of his usual top knot, the style is closer to the way he wore it back during his days as Guoshi of Yong’an—half of it pulled back, but tied low, with the hairpin Hua Cheng gifted him several weeks before holding it in place.

“…Well, that’s a change of pace.”

Shuo’s comment is intended to be slightly more flippant, but his voice is slightly too faint to be mistaken for something less than awe.

Xie Lian shrugs, reaching down to pat Guzi’s head when the child makes his way back inside the shrine.

“Compared to all of the other officials, I’ll be somewhat underwhelming,” the god promises with a light smile.

After all, the mid summer festival is an affair in which every god is looking to display their wealth and power.

For Xie Lian, wearing a slightly nicer set of robes is merely not being an embarrassment.

During his first ascension, he once attended the festival wearing a crown of crystal, so lovely it cast reflections of light everywhere he went.

By comparison, he looks rather modest now.

Shuo glances over to Lang Qianqiu, who looks like he’s been kicked in the head by a horse—but after a moment of pointed staring, he seems to come back to reality, admitting—

“Typically Heavenly Officials are slightly more ostentatious, but Guoshi, you still look…”

Shuo glances back and forth between the two of them, pursing his lips with thought, then steps closer to Xie Lian’s side, reaching up to press his fingertips against the god’s temple.

Xie Lian is curious when he feels something spring forth, sliding through his hair.

Delicate vines, interweaving together to make a handsome circlet around his head, adorned by white blossoms, petals stained with red towards the center.

“There,” the ghost mumbles, pulling his hand back.

Xie Lian reaches up to touch the flowers with his fingertips, surprised.

Lang Qianqiu sends a curious glance in Shuo’s direction, and the demon shrugs, toying with his ponytail. “What? Now he actually looks like a Flower Crowned Martial God.”

Xie Lian’s expression softens, and he smiles. “Thank you, Ren Song,” he murmurs. “That was kind of you.”

Shuo crosses his arms with a shrug, looking away and grumbling. "It's not a big deal..."

In any case, he accepts the pat the crown prince places upon his head nonetheless.

"Don't destroy anything while I'm gone."

Lang Qianqiu mutters an affirmative in acknowledgement.

Ren Song, however, makes no promises.

The two watch as the prince leaves his shrine, disappearing off to the heavens as day begins to turn to night, and the forest demon huffs, crossing his arms.

"You can deal with the kid with the bandages," he mutters, turning back to Guzi.

"He's from Yong'an, anyway."

Therefore, it makes sense that Lang Qianqiu should have to deal with him. Shuo can't even look at him without feeling slightly nauseous, anyway.

"..." The Martial God shrugs, moving in that direction, adding--

"I'm not giving up, you know."

“On Qi Rong?” Shuo questions flatly. “Yeah, I got the message the first time we spoke.”

Lang Qianqiu stares after him, his lips turning down into a frustrated frown.

“You know, I offered to share him,” he mutters. “I’m not the one being a child about this.”

“Share him.”

Shuo repeats flatly.

“What, you wanna hold hands while we stab him at the same time? It’s a fucking stupid suggestion,” he shakes his head, “and I don’t want him dead. You think I’m being childish? Really?”

“As a matter of fact, I—” Lang Qianqiu starts, then stops.

When he glances down, there’s one clawed finger poking into his chest.

Hard.

“I get that you have this whole oblivious puppy attitude,” Shuo stares up at him, his eyes burning with anger. “That’s why no one is ever honest with you.”

“…Oblivious puppy?!” The prince sputters.

“Yeah. And it’s blown up in your face already, hasn’t it?” The ghost glares, watching as Lang Qianqiu grimaces sheepishly. “Our situations are not the same. What he did to you—it isn’t the same as what he did to me.”

He opens his mouth to protest, but Shuo’s finger digs into him a little mort sharply, and he closes it.

“My brother was already dead,” Shuo explains, his voice trembling slightly with emotion. “Dispersing someone’s spirit is—believe it or not—way worse than dying.”

There’s only one ghost that has come back from being dispersed. Ever.

Hua Cheng.

And while no one knew him from before, it’s clear that the experience left him…changed.

“And even if it wasn’t worse, it wouldn’t have mattered if it was Qi Rong, or An Le, or anyone else.”

“How could it not matter?!”

“Because your bloodline was already cursed!” Shuo snaps. “Something awful would have happened to your clan eventually, it just happened to be Qi Rong.”

They both stop, standing in front of the shrine, sun sinking under the hilltops in the distance.

“…what are you talking about?” Lang Qianqiu mutters, staring at Ren Song’s expression—hostile, twisted with bitterness and…

Pain.

“…The man who founded your clan,” Shuo mutters, “the first King of Yong’an.”

“What about him?”

“He was a sick, pathetic piece of shit.”

Ren Song drops his hand from Lang Qianqiu’s chest, fists balling up at his sides, and…

The martial god’s eyes widen with understanding.

“You…” He realizes, looking the ghost over, “…You were born in Xianle, weren’t you?”

“…What was left of it,” Ren Song mutters.

Lang Qianqiu glances away, swallowing hard.

“…I’m sorry that you were harmed by the war,” he takes a deep breath, “but wars…they happen. That isn’t enough to curse an entire bloodline. And I was born five centuries later—”

“I’m not talking about the war.”

Lang Qianqiu stops, his eyebrows creasing. “…King Lang Ying died shortly after the war. Everyone knows that.”

“Qi Rong had your clan slaughtered as a ghost.” Shuo mutters. “You think your ancestor wasn’t capable of causing damage after his death?”

The prince doesn’t seem to have a response to that.

Which is fine. Shuo does.

“He didn’t care about the people of Yong’an. He wasn’t a savior.” The ghost sneers, crossing his arms. It’s a defensive posture, but really—

He’s holding himself. Self soothing.

“I died because of the plague that bastard caused when I was six years old, and do you know what happened after that?!”

…The plague he caused?

“The plague was caused by—”

“Bai Wuxiang. With the help of YOUR ancestor. And even after the calamity killed him—he wouldn’t stop.”

In the distance, from behind a layer of bandages, eyes are watching him.

“He thought the plague would give him his wife and son back. But the way he summoned it the first time—it was by burying children. And you know what?” Shuo throws his hands up, fingers trembling.

“After he died, there weren’t any children left to bury!” It’s almost funny, in the scale of it’s tragedy. “His war, his plague—it killed an entire GENERATION of children. Can you even understand what that means?!”

Suffering so beyond the human scale of comprehension.

“He had to use souls of the children he already killed,” Shuo mutters, his fingers trembling, then going still as he takes deep breaths, his pupils blown with anger. “I woke up in the after life, confused, and scared, only for him to catch me and my older brother, and hang us.”

Lang Qianqiu is silent, knowing there’s no reason or motivation to lie about something like this—but struggling to comprehend that anyone—much less his ancestor—would be capable of such a thing.

“I watched him bury hundreds of children’s souls in the forests of Mount Tonglu.”

Hanging there. Unable to move. Unable to do anything but scream and cry. Knowing that no one was coming to save him. Knowing that he was already dead. That his brother was dead.

That his own father was the one who put him there.

“One by one. Knowing one day, I would be next.”

It broke most of the children there. Before they even went into the ground. When Lang Ying cut them down, they wouldn’t even fight.

Shuo doesn’t know why he does different. There was never anything special about him.

No royal lineage, like Lang Qianqiu. No epic love story, like Hua Cheng. No grand destiny, like Xie Lian.

Shuo just, for whatever reason, didn’t break.

And so many of the people he cared about did.

“I was like that for eight years, before Hua Cheng rescued me and my brother.”

Shuo spent more time hanging in a tree, watching children being buried, their souls slowly dispersing under the weight of the torture, than he did alive.

“Your family. Your kingdom. Every bit of wealth, power, and privilege you grew up with, is built on that man’s legacy.”

Shuo thought he might feel better. That giving verbal weight to his emotional might make them go away.

But it doesn’t.

There was already a weight on Lang Qianqiu’s shoulders. It’s only bigger now. Heavier.

And that doesn’t make him feel better.

“You’ll have to forgive me, for not wanting your grief compared to mine.” He mutters.

He doesn’t need to breathe, but still—his breaths are shaking as he glares at the ground.

“…That’s bullshit.”

Shuo’s eyes widen slightly.

He hasn’t hard the god swear before.

“You didn’t deserve what happened to you. Neither did your brother, or any the other children. And—fine, knowing that—my ancestor was a monster.” Lang Qianqiu agrees, even if it’s hard. “But curses—being doomed by the choices of our ancestors—I don’t believe in any of that.”

Shuo looks up from the ground, looking the martial god in the eye.

His jaw is locked, and there’s a stubbornness to him.

“My father, my aunts, my uncles, my cousins—they’re all dead, because Prince An Le believed in that. But that was a lie.”

If there’s such a thing as a curse, then maybe, it puts you in a difficult situation. Or it brings tragedy to your door.

But how you respond to that is still your own choice.

“There’s a difference between justice and vengeance.”

His Guoshi taught him that a long time ago.

“What you want, what I want—is justice. Qi Rong directly hurt us both. But punishing people for things beyond their control, injustices that they can’t fix—that’s vengeance. That’s what An Le did to my family. And once you go down that path—it never ends.”

Shuo stares at him, eyes wide, his expression unreadable.

…As if he’s seeing the Crown Prince of Yong’an for the first time.

“…What?” Lang Qianqiu mutters, his brow furrowed. “Are you about to laughter at me and call me an idiot again?”

“…No…” The ghost mumbles.

“I just…wish you could have had that conversation with someone else a long time ago,” he mutters, turning back towards the shrine. “I should check on Guzi,” he mutters, walking away.

Because if he had—and if that person would have listened—

Maybe things would be different.

Xie Lian's first Mid Autumn Festival as a god was when he was just seventeen years old. Eagerly bounding through the streets of the Heavenly Capital, his friends on either arm. Taking in the sights, the shows, the music all around.

It's even more opulent now than it used to be.

Of course, Xie Lian can't see the multi-story high displays of makeshift golden palaces. Or the massive pyramids of acrobats and performers dancing through the streets. But the sound of it, the rush of movement, the roar of the music, the heat of the fireworks...

It's overwhelming.

Junior officials laugh and gather in the streets, observing the free entertainment, making bets about the battle of the Lanterns, later.

(Xie Lian is unsurprised to never hear his name come up in such conversations.)

The Upper Court, however, is far removed from the streets of the capital, already gathered for the Mid Autumn Banquet.

For such events, the Grand Martial Hall is completely renovated. Ivory tables moved in, velvet and silk curtains hung throughout, music and laughter in the air.

Since Xie Lian's appearance here is perfunctory at best, he drifts towards the back of the room, taking a seat at a nearly empty table, his hood pulled halfway over his head.

After all, if he doesn't make a scene, he can leave after the lanterns are--

"...Your highness?"

Xie Lian glances up, surprised, finding a familiar aura before him.

Earth toned, very hard edged.

“…Feng Xin,” he smiles, pushing his hair behind his ears. “Are you enjoying the festival?”

The martial god stares down at him, slightly tongue tied, the tips of his ears pink.

Dark eyes watch him resentfully from across the room, glaring over the rim of a wine glass.

“No,” Feng Xin mutters. “I hate parties.”

He always has, Xie Lian remembers that much well. It was one of the only things he and Mu Qing ever had in common, back in the old days.

After all, they always tended to disappear from gatherings at the same time, back in Xianle.

“But why are you sitting back here alone?”

“I…” Xie Lian swallows dryly. “Well…”

“Your highness!” Another voice cries out from across the room, broken up with nervous laughter.

“Hahaha, you’re here! Why don’t you come and sit with me, yes? Over here!”

…Shi Qingxuan.

Xie Lian sends Feng Xin an apologetic smile, rising to his feet as he makes his way across the room.

(And, unfortunately for him, Lady Wind Master is front and center.)

“Lady Wind Master,” he smiles, reaching out to feel for the edge of the table so he can find a seat. Shi Qingxuan notices, reaching over and taking his wrist, guiding him down into the seat beside her. “How are you?”

“GREAT!” She beams, so loud it makes Xie Lean start.

“I thought you would NEVER get here!”

There’s a sort of strain to her voice, and Xie Lian can’t understand why or how, but it feels like he’s been pulled into the middle of something.

And, like everyone else, the goddess is dressed to impress.

Her dress is made of soft, swishing fabric—a light shade of jade green with gold embellishments—and her hair is pulled up into a sumptuous, extravagant style, jade and emerald combs holding it in place.

On her other side, Ming Yi wears simple black robes, looking utterly bored.

Well, that’s not entirely true, he seems somewhat engaged with the rack of beef ribs in front of him, gnawing them down to the bone.

(Shi Qingxuan seems a little distracted whenever he licks the sauce off of his fingers.)

Other than the gold earrings he always wears, he’s completely unadorned.

It’s disgraceful. Even the laughingstock of the three realms made an attempt at being presentable.

“Come now,” Pei snorts boisterously. “It’s not that serious either way.”

“Of course YOU would say that.”

The Water Master’s voice rings clear from his seat beside the general—at the highest table there is, aside from Jun Wu’s.

“Lord Water Master, always so judgmental,” he chides him, “I’m not embarrassed.” He slides the blade across the table, showing where his blood has stained it

Sapphire eyes cut down to stare at it before glancing back up at him, unimpressed. “Yes,” he muses, his tone dry as a bone, “it would be a bit late for you to feel shame.”

That draws laughter from across the room, and Pei shrugs, throwing his hands up, not offended in the least.

“I’m just saying, there’s nothing wrong with not being a virgin.”

Xie Lian’s eyes widen slightly.

Ah, Yan Zhen.

Jun Wu has many swords in collection, with enchantments ranging from useful to the peculiar.

This one, for example, won’t be stained by the blood of a virgin.

Shi Wudu rolls his eyes, reaching down to slide his finger up over the blade, a drop of his own blood running down the edge, remaining there.

“Well, well…” Pei clicks his tongue, smirking over at him. “And you were shaming me…”

The water master arches an eyebrow.

“Compare my two to your…hundreds, or is it thousands?” He muses, rolling his eyes. “I’m not particularly ashamed, no.”

Pei snorts, then stops, his wine glass halfway to his mouth, and when he speaks again, his voice is much softer—and surprised.

“…Two?”

Shi Wudu shrugs. “Are you shocked it’s so few, or are you being a hypocrite now?”

After all, very few could imagine why the general would care, either way.

“…” Pei takes a drink, shaking his head. “Then why should it matter if your little sister isn’t? Let her play.”

The Water Master huffs, and Xie Lian can feel Shi Qingxuan stiffen beside him, silently reeling from the stress.

Xie Lian remembers this game. It didn’t bother him, during his first ascension. After all, his chastity was a point of pride, back then. He practically showed it off.

“Of course she is,” Shi Wudu mutters, crossing his arms, “I just think it’s a ridiculous, immature game.”

“And what makes you so sure?”

“She isn’t married,” Shi Wudu replies haughtily.

Pei let’s out a surprised laugh, pointing with his glass, “YOU aren’t married either!”

“Yes,” the water master agrees, “who can blame me for a lack of suitable candidates.”

Finally, there seems to be something that Genera Pei doesn’t find amusing—his laughter ceasing as he takes another drink from his wine, grumbling something unintelligible into his cup.

“…” Shi Wudu looks away from him, turning his gaze in his sister’s direction. “Just do it, Shi Qingxuan,” the water god rolls his eyes. “It’s not like you haven’t done it before.”

Maybe not in the last decade or two, but still. What difference does it make?

The sword is passed over, eventually coming to rest on the table in front of them.

Shi Qingxuan bites her lip, Xie Lian frowns, and Ming Yi tilts a bowl of curry in front of his mouth, downing the entire thing in two gulps, meat and all.

“…You don’t have to do anything,” Xie Lian murmurs, his brow pinched with disapproval.

He Xuan has to catch his breath, having been so focused on devouring an entire shank of lamb, he forgot to breathe. “And if you’re not, it’s not like anyone knows who did it.”

“…” Shi Qingxuan swallows thickly, staring down at the sword like it might as well be an executioner’s ax, reaching for it hesitantly, and…

Xie Lian sighs, unable to take it any longer, reaching out to take the blade himself, sliding the sharp edge along his palm.

Of course, it was a noble thing to do, stepping in to take the turn from the wind master, though it certainly won’t distract people from—

Several people pause, startled when the blade begins to glow brightly, rattling against the tabletop.

“…Oh,” Shi Qingxuan stares, shocked.

Xie Lian can’t help but feel…pained, hearing her say it like that. Not hatefully, or with judgement. Just…

Surprised.

Meaning she heard those rumors.

Even now, they still exist. Reminding him of one of the more humiliating moments of his life.

More than simple embarrassment

It was a moment of painful, bone deep humiliation. When the connection between the person he had become and the image he had been clinging onto completely shattered.

Across the room, General Xuan Zhen has grown starkly pale, staring down at his plate, hands limp in his lap.

Remembering his greatest regret.

‘That’s how much you hate me?!’

From two tables over, Feng Xin’s jaw is clenched, his hands balled into fists on top of his silverware.

‘You’d rather allow him to sell himself than accept my help?!’

It wasn’t the worst thing he said that night

But Mu Qing rarely says things in anger that he actually regrets. The consequences, maybe, but never the action itself.

And god, he—

His shoulders hunch slightly, his eyes narrowed into a glare.

(But only to hide the emotions behind them.)

Mu Qing regrets everything he said that night.

“…Well,” a nearby martial god speaks up, snorting with disbelief. “I suppose we misjudged you, your highness.”

Feng Xin’s glass of wine cracks, and Mu Qing looks positively green.

Xie Lian doesn’t say a word.

He reaches for a napkin, calmly using it to staunch the blood on his palm, rather than getting it all over the table.

It’s certainly enough of a distraction from Shi Qingxuan, anyway. Xie Lian expected to have that effect, when he did it.

It’s an uncomfortable reminder, but if it prevents the public revelation that Xie Lian expects she was trying to avoid, well—

It’s a price he’s more than happy to pay.

No one deserves to feel ashamed over something like that, one way or the other.

“Come now,” one of the civil gods snickers, covering his mouth. “It’s not as though he ever said a word to defend himself. And to think, we could have held him in such higher regard…”

Shi Qingxuan glares, opening her mouth to defend him, but—

Before anyone else can say a word, the first person to leap to his defense—

“You say that as if you would have believed him.”

Is Pei.

Xie Lian sits in shocked silence.

“And if your high regard is so cheap, what makes you think anyone wants it?”

Pei, whom Xie Lian has (albeit unintentionally) embarrassed and insulted multiple times since his return.

He’s the first to speak up for the Crown Prince of Xianle.

“Ah, yes,” the Civil God rolls his eyes. “General Ming Guang, the great defender of concubines and prostitution.”

“And?” Pei arches an eyebrow. “You know, in my experience, men only resent concubines because they believe what they’re selling is something that they are entitled to have for free.”

/That/ statement leaves the civil god red all the way up to his ears.

“It’s no prostitute’s fault that you couldn’t convince a woman to go to bed with you, divinity and all.” Pei sits back, crossing his arms over his chest.

Shi Wudu doesn’t say a word, fanning himself lazily from the general’s side, but…

There’s an approving glint in his eye.

From the head of the room, sitting at the highest table—Jun Wu seems to have had enough of the commotion, clapping his hands.

Yan Zhen flies from the table, returning to it’s scabbard.

“I think enough people have had a turn,” the emperor murmurs, pouring a glass of wine.

Xie Lian let’s out a sigh of relief. Not for his own sake, but for Shi Qingxuan’s—but when he hears a low drum beat kicking up, his expression becomes a mask of confusion.

“…They came up with this game three centuries ago,” the wind master explains, leaning close.

“Every time the drum beats, the glass of wine is passed to another god. When it stops, whoever has it has to drink the entire thing.”

Oh, a drinking game? That sounds surprisingly normal—

“And,” she adds, “a play about them in the mortal realm is displayed for all to see.”

And it turns out, Xie Lian wasn’t the last heavenly official to arrive.

“Ling Wen!” Pei barks over the drums, “We were wondering when you would arrive!”

To the prince’s surprise, a distinctively male voice replies. “I had a stack of reports to complete, forgive me.”

He takes a seat on the other side of Shi Wudu, their shoulders brushing together. “I’m sure the Water Master was able to keep you entertained in my absence.”

He sends a wry smile Shi Wudu’s way, only for a fan to be snapped in front of his face, blocking it from view.

“I’m always entertaining,” the Water God replies haughtily. “I wish you didn’t have to come in that form.”

Ling Wen arches an eyebrow. She’s handsome as a woman, to be sure—but there’s a different amount of confidence to him, when he takes form as a man.

Tall, broad, with an air of quiet, easy confidence that is…undeniably attractive to anyone within range.

(Even Xie Lian has to admit, he finds Ling Wen’s male voice somewhat alluring.)

Still, he’s never seen Ling Wen take his male form before. Why now?

Sensing his confusion, Shi Qingxuan whispers in his ear. “Ling Wen is more often worshipped as a god these days, rather than a goddess—and we’re expected to attend the mid-autumn festival in our most powerful forms.”

Ah, well, that makes sense. And it also explains why—

“And I wish my brother didn’t have to attend in THAT form, either,” Shi Wudu mutters, slumping back in his seat, his arms crossed. “It’s ridiculous.”

Shi Qingxuan glances down at her plate, her lips sagging into a small frown.

Xie Lian can’t see Ming Yi’s expression. The way his food stops halfway towards his mouth, his gaze sharpening as it turns in the Water Master’s direction.

Hateful.

“Come now,” Pei’s voice is playful, though more teasing than it is boisterous.

“You say that as though you don’t have a female form yourself.”

Shi Qingxuan stiffens, startled, and her older brother, hidden behind his fan, is scarlet from ear to ear.

“And I think she’s rather lovely,” the general adds with a grin, even if it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

General Pei has little love for Shi Qingxuan, it’s true.

But the same cannot be said for her elder brother, and the general understands how important that bond is. And that Shi Wudu’s attitudes towards his sister’s feminine form are…easily misunderstood.

Not stemming from genuine distaste, or small mindedness, but rather…

Protectiveness. Fear and distrust of others. Particularly men.

Where that comes from, Pei Ming doesn’t know. He’s tried and tried, but…There’s only so far that someone will let you in, when they are afraid.

And with that damn pride of his, Shi Wudu would far rather be perceived as anything but frightened.

Shi Qingxuan stares at her older brother, shocked, though not unpleasantly so. “Gege, you have a…?”

Before she can finish her questions, the drums come to a halt.

The victim of the first round is some minor martial god, who takes the chalice, downing it with a grin, chortling as they play shows off some minor victory.

Ming Yi goes back to his meat, and Xie Lian leans his chin on his palm, thinking.

He’s always found these games odd.

He can’t say that he’s ever enjoyed them, but that never seems to be the intention.

There’s no rush in winning. The only possibility of fun is the amusement of the crowd at one god or goddess’s expense.

But this game, at first blush, doesn’t seem so bad.

After all, plays in the mortal realm about the gods are usually flattering, aren’t they? And in the cases of less popular gods, like him—they aren’t included in plays at all.

There’s no risk. Nothing to build anxiety.

(And, for some reason, the games always seem designed to create that sense of tension.)

Shi Qingxuan remains close to his ear, narrating the plays as they go by, none of them particularly noteworthy, but it’s nice to know what’s happening.

The first play of note occurs when the cup lands with Feng Xin, and from the mere sound of it, paired with Shi Qingxuan’s stammering as she tries to explain what’s going on—

It sounds mildly erotic by nature.

There’s a storm of swearing erupting from Feng Xin’s table, followed by snickering from Ming Yi, swallowing down a mouthful of roasted duck. “What do you expect them to write plays about, with a nickname like Dick Yang?” He mutters under his breath.

Shi Qingxuan can’t help but giggle behind her hand, but Xie Lian feels bad for poor Feng Xin…

Of the three of them, he was the only one who wasn’t forced to practice chastity due to cultivation, and yet (likely because of his father) he was always uncomfortable with intimacy.

“You know,” Ming Yi leans back, wiping his mouth with a napkin, his arm resting against the back of Shi Qingxuan’s chair, “I’ve always wondered…”

It’s interesting. Normally, the Earth Master is quiet and sullen. He still is now, but…

He seems slightly more talkative, around Shi Qingxuan—directly contradicting his constant insistence that they aren’t friends.

“Why does Xuan Zhen’s hair look like that at these events?”

Xie Lian’s brow furrows—because obviously, he has no idea. “What does he mean?”

“Ah,” Shi Qingxuan taps her thumb against her chin, “Well, you remember how, during the plague four centuries ago, Mu Qing began being worshipped as a medicinal god as well as a martial god?”

Xie Lian and Ming Yi nod in tandem, and she continues;

“Mortals don’t tell stories as cut and dry as that, like, ‘Oh, the Heavenly Emperor sent down a few gods to deal with the mess, and Xuan Zhen happened to be one of them,’ no, they have to make it more…fantastical, you know?” She drags her fingertip around the rim of her cup.

“So, back then, some playwright took the old stories of Xuan Zhen being born a servant, and twisted it into a new story: that he was bullied and hated by his fellow officers, resented for the status of his birth. His master, however, was oblivious to his struggle.”

Shi Qingxuan tells the story like it’s entirely fictitious, missing the flash of discomfort in Xie Lian’s expression.

“Eventually, a plague ravaged the land. Taking young and old, rich and poor. Xuan Zhen was sent, along with his master’s other generals, to find a cure.”

The drum beat begins once more as the cup is filled to be passed around again.

“General Xuan Zhen discovered a lake with healing properties. Those who drank from it would be cured. But—whenever someone else attempted to fill their cup, the surface of the lake would turn to ice.”

As if by fate, just as she continues to tell the story, the cup lands on Mu Qing’s plate.

He stares down at it, lips turned down into a slight frown, silver earrings clinking at his ears as he leans over to pick it up.

“The other generals called it witchcraft—and they refused to tell Xuan Zhen’s master it was him providing the cure. He worked tirelessly, without credit, bringing casks of water from the lake day in and day out.”

Finally, Mu Qing lifts the glass to his lips, swallowing it down.

“Eventually winter came—and with it, the plague reached the royal capital. Infecting the generals, the nobility, and eventually, Xuan Zhen’s master.”

As she speaks, the velvet curtain on the stage at the center of the room lifts, depicting the scene she’s describing.

“Still, without credit or thanks, Xuan Zhen walked in the snow, bringing water to the people of the city. Curing his master, the men who discredited him, and the nobles who looked down on him. But, eventually—he caught the sickness himself.”

As she speaks, the actor on stage—heroic, of course, as any dramatic lead is—falls to his knees, clutching his chest with a dramatic groan.

“One general—and only one—offered to carry him up the mountain side, so he could drink from the lake himself.”

On cue, another heroic figure appears, carrying the lead on his back, struggling rather theatrically.

“But the mountain was steep—and with the snow getting deeper, it was impossible to carry another person to the summit, where the lake awaited.”

Mu Qing watches the scene unfold with a bored expression, his gaze rather guarded.

“Desperate, afraid he would be too late, his fellow General left Xuan Zhen beneath a cherry tree, hurrying to the summit on his own. But, try as he may, the lake remained frozen solid.”

Shi Qingxuan leans back in her chair, twirling a lock of hair between her fingers. “The general returned, planning to try carrying him to the summit again—but it was too late. Xuan Zhen had succumbed to the sickness and the cold.”

Xie Lian frowns, confused by the story.

“But if he dies in the story, how could he be worshipped as a god?”

“That’s the thing,” Shi Qingxuan smiles, “the drama of it all—the moment he drew his last breath, he ascended. Not only as a martial god, but as a god of medicine and the winter season.”

“That makes sense,” Ming Yi murmurs, watching Mu Qing’s passive expression as he watches the story of his own ‘ascension,’ “Even if it is a lie, he’s certainly cold blooded enough to be a god of Winter.”

“Hush,” Shi Qingxuan swats his arm playfully, “I’m not finished.”

Xie Lian doesn’t entirely agree. Mu Qing is the opposite of cold blooded. He might seem unfeeling at times—but he’s one of the more emotional people the prince has ever known.

People just judge too quickly to see it.

“When Xuan Zhen ascended—his hair changed too.”

The play makes it’s dramatic conclusion as she explains—

“It changed in color to match the surface of the frozen lake. As such, General Xuan Zhen is worshipped and painted as having silver hair.”

The very same look he’s sporting now, silken locks gleaming like starlight as they float around his face, making his eyes seem even darker and more mysterious by comparison, watching as they play draws to a close.

“…That’s quite a story,” Xie Lian murmurs.

“Too bad it’s not true,” Ming Yi yawns. “Mortals are truly ridiculous.”

“Oh, that’s not the most bizarre claim,” Shi Qingxuan smiles. “There’s even a story that drinking his blood can cure any ailment.”

Xie Lian’s jaw goes slack, his brow pinching with worry. “…What?”

“Oh,” his friend laughs, shaking his head. “Don’t worry, your highness! No one is about to take a bite out of him. His worshippers just create dishes incorporating animal blood every winter solstice to obtain blessings for good health in the following year.”

“It is odd though,” Ming Yi muses, watching the glass pass around the room again. “The things that mortals come up with.”

“Oh, I’ve heard stranger things,” the wind master muses. “You know—they’ll even make up stories for why certain gods don’t exist.”

Xie Lian’s eyebrows raise. “Why would they do that?”

“Well,” Shi Qingxuan snaps her fan open, giving it a couple of gentle flaps to re-adjust some flyaways in her hair. “We have a Water Master, a Rain Master, an Earth Master, and a Wind Master, yes?”

“…Right,” Xie Lian agrees.

“The Thunder Master only faded away a few centuries ago, the vacancy isn’t old enough that it draws mortal attention—but we haven’t had a fire master in over a thousand years. So, with no one to worship, they made up a story to explain it.”

Now that she mentions it—it is odd.

Even when Xie Lian was a child, there hadn’t been a fire master for several hundred years. Maybe there hasn’t even been one in Jun Wu’s entire term as Heavenly Emperor.

“See, according to the mortals, there was a volcanic eruption eight centuries ago—and a star that burned so brightly in the aftermath, it could even be seen in the daylight, and it remained that way for several months—” Shi Qingxuan prattles on, and Xie Lian stops her.

“That actually did happen.”

Shi Qingxuan stops, surprised. “…Really?”

The drum beats stop again, this time landing on another civil god, with some tale that doesn’t seem particularly worth describing.

After all, Xie Lian’s revaluation is more interesting.

“Yes,” the prince agrees, straining to remember. “It happened when i was…around seven years old. The star burned red in the sky for around three months. It was…beautiful, but strange.”

Later on, it would be called a cursed omen, foretelling the fall of Xianle.

Xie Lian only remembers thinking that it was beautiful.

“Well, who knows—maybe there’s some truth to it. The story goes that the Fire Master was an ancient star, looking down on the world each night—until one day, he fell in love with a mortal. One of royal blood.”

The prince smiles faintly, listening close.

“He would watch the mortal each night in his dreams, and the young noble would look up at the stars each night, finding one more beautiful than all the rest. And as time went on, it became more and more painful to be apart.”

It’s a beautiful story. Something like a fairytale, but…

“The Fire Master knew his beloved would ascend as a god one day. So, he waited, and he waited…but when the noble’s day of ascension came, his godhood was stolen from him.”

That’s the thing about fairytales.

“And so, the exalted fire master, bound to the heavens, was torn from his beloved, shackled to the earth below. In his rage, a volcano rocked the earth, spewing flame and ash into the sky. And his star burned brighter and brighter, until…”

He faded away.

Xie Lian frowns, his stomach sinking.

What a miserable story.

But—

“He gave up his godhood, and his star fell, crashing to the earth below.”

Xie Lian pauses, his lips parting.

“His beloved caught him, cradling the fading god in his arms.” Shi Qingxuan recalls.

“And in exchange for giving up his own life, his beloved rose at last as a god, separating them once more.”

There’s something heartbreaking about the tale—and without thinking, Xie Lian finds himself grasping the chain around his neck, his chest aching with something bittersweet

“According to such tales, his beloved still roams the earth as a martial god now, sustained by one believer—the fallen fire master, who watches over him from the ghost realm below.”

There’s a heavy pause, and eventually, Ming Yi empties his glass. “That’s fucking depressing.”

Xie Lian can’t help but agree, and Shi Qingxuan shrugs. “Sure, but it’s where the term ‘star crossed lovers,’ came from.”

“Really?” Xie Lian’s eyes widen slightly. “I had no idea.”

“Have you ever wished on a falling star?” Shi Qingxuan points out wryly. “That’s where that superstition comes from, too.”

“That seems like a crock of shit,” Ming Yi mutters, picking at his bowl of pickled plums, and Shi Qingxuan’s pouts.

“I’m not making it up! Back when I was a little kid, they used to call falling stars ‘Tears of the Fire Master!’ And if you wished on one, your love would be bound by fate!” She huffs, crossing her arms.

“And how do you know so much about it?”

“Because my gege used to tell me that story every night before bed!” She cries, indignant. “It was my favorite!”

“Oh,” Ming Yi snorts derisively. “The Water Master was telling you bedtime stories, was he?”

“He wasn’t the Water Master back then, he was just my big brother!”

Shi Qingxuan pouts, fiddling with her whisk. “And he was so busy working during the day, I hardly ever got to see him.”

“Working?” Xie Lian questions. “Is he that much older than you?”

It always sounded as though they were close enough in age to grow up together as children.

“Mmm…” Shi Qingxuan shrugs. “Our age difference isn’t that large—but our parents died when I was a toddler, so he was running the merchant business for as long as I can remember.”

At first, it’s difficult to imagine someone so young being given such responsibility, but…

As someone who was made the martial god of the central plains at the ripe old age of seventeen, he has no room to call such a thing unbelievable.

“Did he—?”

Just as Xie Lian opens his mouth to question it, the drums stop.

And, as if by fate—

Shi Wudu is left holding the cup.

There’s a pause before the curtains draw up, and when the do—Ming Yi snorts, and Shi Qingxuan swats his arm again.

“Don’t laugh!”

“Why shouldn’t I?” The earth master mutters, heaping more beef into his plate. “It serves him right.”

…What is that supposed to mean?

“Oh…” Shi Qingxuan groans, watching the play between her fingers. “He’s going to hate this…”

“Hate what?” Xie Lian questions, given that this is the first play The Wind Master hasn’t leapt into a narration for.

“…” The wind master bites her lip, watching the actress on stage. Long, raven hair—luminous blue eyes—and a haughty expression. Beautiful, but…

“…You know how…the ocean’s tides change with the phases of the moon?” She whispers hoarsely.

“…Yes?”

“Well, uh…”

Shi Qingxuan picks at her food fretfully, and Ming Yi smirks.

“He’s often worshipped as god of the moon as well because of it. But, there’s already a Sun god.”

…The Heavenly Emperor, Jun Wu.

Shi Qingxuan sinks lower in her seat as Ming Yi explains it further.

“The Sun and the Moon have always been worshipped in tandem. But in this case, people already worshiped the Wind and Water masters as siblings.”

For once, the earth god is oh-so-happy to be talkative.

“So, it was natural to worship the god of the moon as the Sun God’s consort.”

Across the room, Shi Wudu’s face is impassive as he watches the display.

But his knuckles are white, where they grip the handle of his fan.

“In some kingdoms, this made little difference, and the Water Master is still worshipped as a man. But in others…”

In places less accepting of relations between members of the same sex, naturally, the Heavenly Emperor could only have a wife.

An Empress, always setting and fading as her husband rises.

“…She is worshiped as a goddess.”

“And gege hates it,” Shi Qingxuan mumbles.

“It makes him so upset…”

Xie Lian can’t imagine why it would be such an issue. He wouldn’t mind being worshipped as a goddess. Actually, while it was brief, and the circumstances were stressful, he enjoyed his time in a female form.

But then again, Shi Wudu is different.

Some people care very deeply about being perceived as masculine—as a matter of pride. Xie Lian has just never been one of them.

He’s been stronger than most men since he was a child, but more beautiful than most of them too.

He’ll dress as a woman when needed without a care. And he’s rarely felt compelled to prove his prowess to others. It has always spoken for itself, regardless of his looks or actions.

Strength is strength, regardless of what form it comes in.

But, once again—Shi Wudu’s pride often leads to him being misunderstood.

There are certain stories tied to his female form he doesn’t mind.

A goddess of resilience and rebirth. Known as a protector of mothers and newborn children.

Others, however, draw horror and disgust.

Among them being that, rather than being his younger brother, Shi Qingxuan is actually his daughter with the Heavenly Emperor.

The first time he heard it, he had to excuse himself, becoming sick to his stomach.

And this play—

It feels grotesque.

“…What’s happening?” Xie Lian inquires quietly, feeing somewhat awkward, and Shi Qingxuan startles, clearing her throat.

“Haha…” She laughs nervously, “S-sorry your highness. This one—it’s about the waxing and waning of the moon.”

Oh, well—that sounds harmless enough.

“In this story, she’s reborn over and over again with the new moon, and this is depicting one of the cycles, see…” Shi Qingxuan glances over the stage, biting her lip. “Here, her first born has been promised to a monster.”

Depicted as a horned, hunchbacked beast on the stage, long claws and sharp teeth, reaching for the swaddled infant with a greedy eye.

“But the Moon goddess is clever, creating a golem from stone and earth, tricking the monster into thinking that was the child he demanded…”

The play shows as much, with the monster running off with the child gleefully.

“But, when the child came of age, the golem turned to dust—enraged, the monster returned to demand payment. This time, the cost was far more harsh. He demanded that the child pay with her life.”

Ming Yi watches the horned beast loom over the woman and child, armed crossed, his expression impassive.

“But, rather than allow her child to pay the price…” Shi Qingxuan winces, watching as the actress makes a great show of brandishing a knife. “She takes her own life.”

Shi Wudu seems bored, watching his female counterpart slit her own throat on stage, even if Pei has suddenly grown pale and silent by his side.

It’s only the sight of the heavenly emperor’s actor holding her in his arms, weeping and screaming with grief, that makes him feel sick

The curtain suddenly drops down, and Xie Lian raises an eyebrow, surprised to hear that the play has been cut off so suddenly. “…Is it over?”

“Oh, No, it looks like gege made them stop, thank heavens…” Shi Qingxuan mutters, slightly nauseous.

“You can do that?”

“Oh, sure! You just have to donate a hundred thousand merit credits!”

“…”

The drumbeat starts over again, the glass refilled, being passed again, and Xie Lian can still sense Shi Qingxuan’s anxiety, so…

He tries to change it to a subject that she never seems to tire of.

“Your brother and Pei…seem much closer than I realized,” he mutters, taking a sip of water.

Ming Yi’s eyes widen slightly as he glances over at him, as if silently asking if Xie Lian really wants to open that can of words, but…

Remembering the prince can’t see verbal cues, he quickly gives up.

“Huh?” Shi Qingxuan blinks. “I already said they were friends.”

“Yes, but…” Xie Lian glances in Shi Wudu’s direction, eyeing a swirling, deep blue aura. “He seems more tolerant of Pei than he is of others.”

“It’s even WORSE when we’re alone,” Shi Qingxuan groans. “He won’t let me say ONE bad word about him! In my own palace!”

Xie Lian can see how it might frustrate her, but he actually finds that level of loyalty rather endearing among friends.

It reminds him of Feng Xin.

“And the way he talks about him!” Shi Qingxuan glares, her face reddening slightly with outrage. “He’ll never give me a SINGLE compliment—and he won’t give Pei one to his face, either—but when we’re alone, it’s always ‘Pei this’ and ‘Pei that!’ It makes no sense!”

In all honesty, Xie Lian brought this up because he expected it to distract the wind master—and it did—but he never expected her to become this agitated.

“Honestly, why is he so BLIND when it comes to him?!” She grumbles, lifting her cup of wine to her lips, glaring.

Ming Yi doesn’t look up, picking up a pickled plum, and just before he drops it into his mouth, he casually states—

“It’s probably because they’re fucking.”

…To which Shi Qingxuan spits her wine across the table, choking on it.

(Even Xie Lian let’s out a shocked wheeze.)

“They—!” Shi Qingxuan squawks, quickly lowering her voice into a scandalized whisper, “They are not!!”

Ming Yi chews on his plum, catching some juice dripping from the corner of his mouth with the tip of his tongue. “It’s highly probable.”

“My brother would never!!”

“One of us needs to get our eyes checked, because I saw his blood staining that sword, clear as day.” His gaze cuts over to Xie Lian, realizing that might have been slightly insensitive, “No offense.”

“None taken,” the prince replies hoarsely.

“Just because my brother has had…” Shi Qingxuan swallows hard, her pallor faintly green. “Just because he’s been with someone, doesn’t mean that person was Pei!”

“I’ll be brutally honest—”

…Was he not being brutal about it before?

“He has no choice but to put up with you. But NO ONE would put up with the two of you fighting over him unless the sex was SPECTACULAR—”

“Would you shut up?!” Shi Qingxuan hisses. “They aren’t having—they aren’t doing that!”

Ming Yi turns to face her, smiling faintly.

“Why is it so upsetting for you?”

“Because it’s not true! You’re just saying it to tease me!”

“I am not, I think it’s true,” Ming Yi shrugs, glancing over to Xie Lian, “and so does he.”

The prince stiffens, sensing the wind master looking in his direction.

“You do?!”

Unable to think of what to say, Xie Lian fumbles for his plate, shoving some mantou in his mouth, but…as he chews, he can feel Shi Qingxuan watching him, waiting intently, and…

He chews faster, fumbling for another bun…only to have the plate pulled out of his reach.

Shi Qingxuan clutches it to her chest, glaring, “You can’t eat your way out of this!”

“…” Xie Lian starts chugging his water.

“Your highness!!”

“…Is it so bad if they are?” The prince questions weakly. “They seem very fond of one another.”

“Fond?! I—!”

Shi Qingxuan sputters. “I’m FOND of lots of people, I don’t sleep with all of them!”

“Aw,” Ming Yi smiles wider, his arm still slung along the back of her chair, “that’s very nice.”

She’s actually irritated enough to elbow him in the ribs for that one.

“Oof!”

Xie Lian is too distracted, fumbling for a gentle form of reasoning, to notice the subtext behind THAT exchange. “Well, you know,” he mumbles, blood rushing in his ears, “I’m a virgin.”

“…Yes,” Ming Yi agrees. “I think everyone knows that, now.”

Right. Right.

“But, if I was going to be with a person…” Xie Lian trails off, awkward. “It would be with someone I trusted, and was fond of…and those two seem to be…”

“What, so you haven’t had someone like that in 800 years?”

Well.

“I thought about it, once,” he mumbles without thinking.

“It didn’t work out.”

That once, of course, being Wu Ming.

Not for the right reasons. And if Xie Lian was being honest with himself—he wasn’t ready back then. He was still young, so vulnerable, and…

Xie Lian thinks Wu Ming would have known that, if he had asked.

And unlike the kiss—when he was so gentle, so considerate—Xie Lian thinks the ghost would have told him no, if he had asked for something he hadn’t been ready for.

It makes him remember a small detail. Tactile, sticking out brightly in his mind.

Back then, just before he kissed him on the lips—Wu Ming kissed his forehead first, his nose trailing down, allowing Xie Lian to feel the kiss coming, since he couldn’t see it.

Such a small, considerate little detail. Remembering it makes the prince’s heart swell with affection.

Followed with a hint of sadness.

“…Just once?” Shi Qingxuan questions, surprised

Well—it has only been once, hasn’t it?

Xie Lian gives the matter some thought, wondering if there was anyone else he would…

“…” His face turns slightly red, and he nods—a jerking movement.

“…The point being,” he mumbles, swallowing hard, “If they are…together—I don’t think that’s such a bad thing.”

“They’re not!”

“They are.”

“And what makes you so sure?!”

“First of all,” Ming Yi holds up a finger, “your brother allows Pei to tease him without consequence.”

In public no less. For someone like Shi Wudu, proud and spiteful, that’s no small thing.

“Pei is a powerful ally to have,” Shi Qingxuan mumbles—willing to pay the general a compliment before she’ll agree that he MIGHT be having relations with her brother.

“It could be for purely political reasons!”

Maybe. If the Water Master wasn’t so powerful as to not need allies, but that isn’t Ming Yi’s only point—

“And,” the earth master lifts up another plum, lifting it to his lips.

“All you have to do is watch Pei Ming for more than a few minutes at any point in time to know that he’s absolutely mad for your brother.”

Shi Qingxuan gawks at the very idea that Pei might be ‘mad’ for anyone.

“He’s a philanderer. The only thing that makes him ‘mad’ is someone that doesn’t WANT to sleep with him. In which case, sure, he MIGHT be mad for my brother!”

“I don’t see why it really matters…” Xie Lian mumbles, wishing they would both stop.

Ming Yi, however, seems to have found a cure to the desperate boredom he’s been experiencing all night, and isn’t keen to give it up.

“Because the Water Master is her brother, mother, and father rolled into one, and the idea of Pei wrecking his—”

“Enough!” Shi Qingxuan hisses.

“…Point being, she doesn’t like it,” Ming Yi concludes with a wry smile, seeming satisfied with the chaos he’s wrought.

“Would you?!”

“What’s next, are you going to tell Pei he isn’t your ‘real dad?’”

“You—!”

Finally—mercifully—the drums stop.

This time, the wine glass has landed rather close. Actually, closer than Xie Lian realized.

With the person sitting on his other side.

He had no idea who was sitting there before. They had been quiet the entire time, wordlessly eating the food, but…

“Ah, General Qi Ying!”

Xie Lian strains to remember where he’s heard that name before—likely from one of Qi Rong’s minions, back in that cave…

Isn’t that Quan Yizhen? Martial god of the West?

He doesn’t know anything about him—and to be fair, no one has brought him up very much since his ascension.

From beside him, the young martial god glares down at the cup of wine, knocking it back with one large swallow.

He’s got a slightly wild look, compared to the other gods present. Thick, curly hair, pulled halfway up and out of his face, trailing down his back.

It’s somewhat akin to that of a lion’s mane. His countenance is youthful—square jawed, straight nosed. Handsome, but in a rather straight forward way, with eyes the color of melted caramel, and sun kissed skin.

Even sitting down, he’s tall—broad, and…distinctly quiet.

And when the velvet curtain rises from the stage once more, he remains so. Eyes wide, flickering to and fro as he watches the actors move about the stage, taking every movement in.

And clearly, not liking what they see.

Shi Qingxuan doesn’t volunteer to narrate this time—and with Quan Yizhen sitting directly to his right, Xie Lian doesn’t feel comfortable asking what’s going on.

The play itself is intended to be comedic, by nature.

Depicting a handsome hero in gleaming armor, committing one act of bravery after another. Saving a down. Defeating a demon. Wooing young ladies along the way.

And all the while, another actor—a squat, unattractive man—is trying to sabotage him at every step of the way.

The hero doesn’t lift a finger to stop him. No, he doesn’t even seem to notice that someone is trying to sabotage him at all. Rather, the man is thwarted by his own clumsiness or stupidity each time.

Tripping over his own feet, falling for his own traps.

At one point, he even confesses to his crimes, unprompted, dismayed to find that no one noticed—or even cared.

Xie Lian can’t see any of this—but he can hear the laughter from the audience.

It’s distinctly…cruel.

And Quan Yizhen—he’s trembling, but not with laughter.

The air around him is distinctly distressed—whether from rage or hurt, it’s difficult to tell, but…

Something about the silent unrest bothers the prince. And the fact that so many people seem to feel comfortable laughing at his expense.

(Even if they don’t realize it.)

The more it goes on, the worse Xie Lian feels—until he just can’t stand it anymore.

He feels around on the table, finding a wooden chopstick, delicately sliding one of his boots off under the table, pressing the bare sole of his foot against the floor, feeling the vibrations.

It gives him a rough estimate of where the stage is, the size and height of it, and where the cords holding up the curtains connect to the ceiling. It’s not perfect, and he doesn’t expect to get it on his first try, but—

/SNAP!/

The chopstick pierces through the cord perfectly.

The curtain comes crashing down, obscuring the stage from view, all while the gods look around, trying to figure out what happened.

(After all, it was so quick, no one saw.)

Well. Almost no one.

The young man beside him is staring at Xie Lian with wide eyes.

His pupils are almost slightly dilated, but they narrow in on the prince’s face for a moment, focused.

And of course, Shi Qingxuan and Ming Yi are watching silently, unsure as to what the temperamental martial god is about to do, but…

He reaches down, carefully lifting the remaining mantou on his plate, placing it on that of the crown prince, one by one.

Xie Lian sits there awkwardly, about to ask what he’s doing, but…

That’s when Quan Yizhen leaps from his feet, charging over towards the stage.

“G-General Qi Ying!” One of the other gods cries out, “There’s not—!”

He dives beneath the curtains, finding nothing, seeming to remember—the play they are seeing is nothing more than an illusion.

The ACTUAL play is coming from the mortal realm, below.

“…”

The Martial God then turns, moving towards the exit of the martial hall, descending without another word.

Xie Lian glances towards Shi Qingxuan, who has started fanning herself to alleviate the stress. “…What just happened?”

“He’s probably off to beat up his own worshippers again…” she mutters, shaking her head. “Honestly, it’s a miracle he still has so many…”

Xie Lian opens his mouth to ask WHY general Qi Ying is going to beat up his own worshippers, but—

“And you know what?” Shi Qingxuan turns back towards Ming Yi with a huff, crossing her arms.

The earth master’s eyebrows quirk, amused, his mouth lifting at the corners as he crosses his legs, leaning in to offer her his undivided attention.

“What?”

“There’s no way you’re right.”

Xie Lian bites back a groan, shoving one of his newly obtained buns in his mouth.

They’re still on this?

“And how do you figure?”

“My brother wouldn’t sleep with someone philandering about with countless other lovers! He‘a too proud.”

“You have a point there,” Ming Yi agrees, dark hair falling around his face as he leans down to her height, gold earrings flashing in the candlelight, “but Pei, hedonistic as he may be, hasn’t been seen with a lover in some time.”

“I—” Shi Qingxuan pauses, her lips parted.

“How would you know that?!”

Ming Yi’s smile turns slightly sharp as he leans in even further, whispering next to her ear, “Didn’t you hear? I’m quite the spy.”

Bold enough to deceive crimson rain sought flower, no less.

His breath fans over her skin, the cold metal of his earring brushing against the side of her neck—and she shivers, fighting the urge to bite her lip.

Across the room, sapphire eyes narrow sharply.

“It’s my job to know everything.”

Shi Qingxuan swallows hard, her throat dry.

“…Not everything,” she mutters, but she seems to have no argument left in her.

Ming Yi raises an eyebrow, but…

…The drums are back.

And of course, since Quan Yizhen has abandoned his glass, and the feast, Xie Lian picks it up, passing it over to Shi Qingxuan.

It’s the natural step, since she’s sitting right next to him, and so she passes it to Ming Yi—

Who passes it right back.

“…Ming-Xiong!” She hisses, shoving the glass back at him. “Take it to the next table!”

“You do it,” he grumbles, pulling over a bowl of pork belly.

“I’m eating.”

“You’re ALWAYS eating!” Shi Qingxuan grumbles. “Just carry it over!”

“Why?”

(They’re still furiously passing the cup back and forth.)

“Because you’re the last one at the table to have it!”

“That’s not an actual rule.”

“It’s common decency!”

“I’m not decent.”

“Well, then I guess the next play is just going to be about YOU!”

But that is something the Earth Master doesn’t actually seem keen on, so—

He shoves the cup back into Xie Lian’s startled hands, and…

The drums come to a sudden halt.

Shi Qingxuan stares, utterly scandalized.

“You can’t just do that to a blind man!” She hisses, sending Ming Yi a glare.

“He’s not actually blind though,” The earth master mumbles through a mouthful of pork. “He’s just been running around for eight hundred years with an evil magical blindfold. Not the same thing.”

“MING—!”

“Well, hold on,” Xie Lian holds up a finger, the wineglass dangling from his other hand, “he’s got a point there.”

Shi Qingxuan stares at him, slightly agog, mumbling, “Your highness, we really need to talk about how your threshold for being insulted is far too high…”

“No, no,” the prince shakes his head, “I’m really not blind. I can see spiritual power. And aside from the shackles, there’s nothing wrong with my vision.”

He wouldn’t call it ‘evil magic,’ but Ming Yi isn’t wrong, and Xie Lian doesn’t want to be pitied.

Someone blind through birth defect or injury didn’t choose to be that way.

Xie Lian, however, is being punished for his choices.

The difference is very real.

“…” Shi Qingxuan grimaces, watching as the curtain rises up, and Xie Lian smiles, patting her leg.

“You’ve already said it,” he murmurs, “I have a very high tolerance for being insulted. I’m less likely to be bothered than anyone else here.”

The wind master frowns, watching him sip the glass of wine. Disapproving, but unable to dispute his logic.

“…These plays get to everyone, your highness,” she mumbles, her expression tinged with a deep frown. “That’s the point.”

If that was the case, Xie Lian can’t imagine who is supposed to be entertained by it.

Besides, he’s the ‘laughingstock of the three realms.’

If there are any plays about him in the mortal realm, he suspects they’re probably of a comedic nature.

But he can’t help but notice, even as he finishes his glass…

No one is laughing.

Which is surprising, given how low the standards for comedy in the Heavens are.

But more so than that…

It’s the silence that Xie Lian finds odd. Not a single soul in the room willing to make a peep.

“…What is it?” He murmurs, reaching over to touch Shi Qingxuan’s sleeve.

The Windmaster starts, clearing her throat. “It—Um—it really doesn’t…you don’t…”

Her voice is filled with confusion—and…discomfort. “It’s clearly something made up…”

The prince raises an eyebrow.

“If it’s made up, then why not tell me?”

After all, what could be so bad?

“It’s…” She trails off, unsure, and finally, Xie Lian hears something:

One of the actors on the stage.

Sobbing.

“I-It HURTS!”

Xie Lian’s expression freezes, and his blood runs cold.

No.

That’s—

“HELP ME!”

No.

He knows the answer now, before Shi Qingxuan says it, the world around him spiraling.

“…It’s about Bai Wuxiang, your highness.”

Then, the screaming just gets louder.

“PLEASE! IT HURTS! IT HURTS! SOMEONE—ANYONE—HELP ME!”

He can’t see it, but everyone else can, and…

He knows.

That an actor version of himself is strung up on stage, hands bound, being stabbed over and over again with a prop sword.

All while one person watches, wearing a mask.

Half smiling, half crying.

Then, it dives slightly off script.

“XUAN ZHEN! NAN YANG!”

And for the worse.

“WHERE ARE YOU?!” The actor screams, “WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME?!”

Ming Yi’s plate is suddenly untouched.

From beside him, Shi Qingxuan has turned slightly green, glancing between the play, and the prince, whispering; “This isn’t funny, this shouldn’t be part of a game, even if it’s not true…”

Ming Yi glances over at her, his expression suddenly deathly serious. “Stop it.”

Shi Qingxuan stares, not understanding him at first—

“Stop the show, now.” He mutters, his gaze carefully trained on Xie Lian’s face.

The Wind Master glances back over at him, but…

The prince doesn’t look upset, not exactly.

Actually, the only way to even tall that he’s awake is the fact that his eyes are open, staring blankly ahead. Lips slightly parted, but slack. His brow smooth. Completely unmoving.

She hasn’t seen anything quite like it before, and she doesn’t…she should…

Ming Yi is right, something’s wrong, she—

“…This is a play in the mortal realm?”

Xie Lian’s voice is quiet, small. Normally, there’s something inherently comforting about the way the prince speaks. His tone is always gentle, always calm, even under difficult circumstances.

Shi Qingxuan has never heard him sound…

Weak. Fragile. Hurt.

Not until now.

“…Yes,” Shi Qingxuan mutters, “based on an old, stupid story, I’ll stop it r—”

Xie Lian’s hand lands on her wrist before she can raise it in order to donate the merit credits.

“Wait.”

Shi Qingxuan looks over at him, her expression pinched with worry. “It’s no trouble, your highness, it’s a drop in the—”

“…This play has been around…for a long time?”

On the stage, the masked figure laughs mockingly, lifting the prince back up when he collapses each time.

“…Yes,” Shi Qingxuan admits. “I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never seen it before—”

“What is it about?”

Bai Wuxiang’s actor drags him back by the hair, cackling with delight—

“BEHOLD! THE SAVIOR OF XIANLE!” His voice—

It’s so loud. Too loud. Echoing off of the walls.

“LET’S SHOW HIM OUR GRATITUDE, SHALL WE?”

There’s no one showing up to save him, obviously. Xie Lian’s character isn’t the hero in this play. No, in this scene—They’re slaying the villain.

That’s the thing about this play, one that makes it so unique—and it’s rarely performed.

Bai Wuxiang peels off his mask, revealing his true face:

The same as the Prince of Xianle.

In this play, the lead and the villain must always be portrayed by identical twins.

“It’s just…um…” Shi Qingxuan clears her throat, wincing as the extras in the play count the blows.

“THIRTY ONE!”

“THIRTY TWO!”

“THIRTY THREE!”

“It just…there was a rumor, back in the old days, that…the cure to human face disease was…murder,” she mutters, clearly uncomfortable. “And a myth that…Bai Wuxiang used…used your immortal body to…”

Right.

Xie Lian forgot.

Before he passed out, back then…

Among the first to cut him were a father and child, fleeing the temple before all the rest.

They probably survived.

They probably—

‘You promised you wouldn’t tell.’

They probably told the story.

“HELP ME, HELP ME, HELP ME, HELP ME—!”

“FORTY FIVE!”

“FORTY SIX!”

“Your highness,” Shi Qingxuan pleads, attempting to tug her wrist out of his grip, but—

He’s remarkably strong.

“Please, just let me stop it, I—”

“LET ME DIE! WHY CAN’T I DIE?!”

“FORTY EIGHT!”

“FORTY NINE!”

Ming Yi grits his teeth, his eyes flashing towards the front of the room, then back to Shi Qingxuan and Xie Lian, muttering something under his breath as he reaches over.

“NAN YANG! PLEASE, I-I’M SORRY, PLEASE COME BACK!”

“FIFTY!”

“XUAN ZHEN—WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME?!”

“FIFTY ONE!”

Xie Lian has a tight grip on her, but he isn’t looking in her direction. He’s just staring ahead blankly, the words rattling around in his head. Echoing like water in a cave, the sound swelling and swelling, never escaping, until it’s all he can hear.

“IT HURTS!”

Ming Yi’s hand wraps around his fingers, and—with an amount of strength that shocks even Xie Lian, as far away as he is—he wrenches his hand off of Shi Qingxuan’s, freeing her.

“IT HURTS, IT HURTS, IT HURTS—”

Help me.

Help me, help me, help me, help, help, help, help me!!!!

It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts...it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS!!!

Shi Qingxuan lifts her hand immediately to stop it, but before she can open her mouth—

The curtain suddenly drops down, and the play falls silent.

The martial hall remains quiet as well. No one is eating their food, nor drinking their wine.

“…That wasn’t me,” Shi Qingxuan mumbles, glancing around. “Who—?”

From across the room, the Water Master lowers his hand, going back to his wine. He’s the first person to move—much less breathe—in the aftermath, taking a sip.

“I happen to know for a fact that there is a very appropriate play titled, ‘Tales from Banyue’ featuring the crown prince,” he comments, setting his glass down. “I certainly hope it was only his bad luck that resulted in me witnessing that during my dinner.” He mutters.

His plate is pushed aside, forgotten.

Instead, he gestures for someone to bring him more wine.

“Ling Wen, which of the deputy gods is in charge of selecting the plays for this year?”

The head civil god startles out of a horrified stupor, shaking his head.

“It was supposed to be Pei Xiu,” he admits, slightly pale after that spectacle. “But as for the replacement, that…”

He doesn’t say it, but he doesn’t have to.

Shi Wudu knows.

That was likely left to the Palace of the Heavenly Emperor, who has no deputies.

Only servants.

They do only as they are told.

“…I see.” He reaches under the table, squeezing Pei’s hand, trembling with anger. “Well, it must have been an error. How embarrassing for us.”

He had to stop the martial god from making a scene twice, expecting Shi Qingxuan to deal with it.

But with the prince stopping him, and Pei ready to burst a blood vessel trying to open his mouth, drawing the emperor’s ire once again…

There had been little choice.

Still, it doesn’t matter.

Shi Wudu glances down at his wine glass, and Pei stews, snatching an entire cask from one of the passing servers, keeping it for himself.

He stares at the dark liquid before rising to his feat.

None of it matters.

With one sweep of the Water Master’s arm, the stage disappears.

All eyes turn from Xie Lian, who has yet to move, or react in the slightest—settling upon him.

And Shi Wudu—

His smile is dazzling, his cup raised.

To the emperor, Jun Wu.

“You’ll have to forgive me, your majesty,” his voice oozes with a charming level of confidence.

“But this is my last mid-autumn festival before facing my third heavenly calamity, and I intend to enjoy it to the fullest.”

With a sweep of his fan, golden leaves of paper come raining down, drawing whoops of excitement across the room.

Merit credits, falling in abundance.

“The Water Master is so impressive!”

“At his age, facing a third calamity! That’s NEVER been done before!”

“His little sister clearly learned her generosity from him—AH! I CAUGHT A THOUSAND!”

Shi Qingxuan is popular, yes. By contrast, Shi Wudu has always been respected.

Everyone in the room looks at him now, eyes filled with admiration—and, however reluctant, deep respect.

All except for one person.

Dark eyes, watching him with nothing but resentment and contempt.

Waiting in the shadows of glory and success.

There lies the price of secrets.

Jun Wu lifts his hand, shaking his head.

He doesn’t seem angered by the Water Master’s outburst.

If anything, he seems pleased. As though this was exactly what he wanted.

Shi Wudu wipes his wine.

“By all means, Lord Water Master, enjoy yourself,” he murmurs.

“Nothing brings me greater pleasure.”

Of course it does.

The water god downs the rest of his glass, setting it down.

No matter what he does. Somehow, someway, the choice is never his own. It’s simply one domino crashing into the next. Part of a larger picture he cannot see.

“Thank you,” he mutters, bowing his head before turning around, waving his fan once more.

Outside, a fanfare of fireworks explodes, bringing the mood of the party back up to where it was before, dragging the attention away from that grotesque spectacle of a play.

“If I’m not incorrect, I believe there are lanterns to be counted.”

His grip on Pei’s arm is far more gentle than it looks as he pulls the general from his seat, pulling him up—doing the same with Ling Wen, who still seems to be trying to puzzle things together.

By dragging the two of them out, he leads the procession of heavenly officials out of the martial hall, making their way outside, to the newly constructed pavilion in the center square, surrounding a hole cut out to the mortal realm below, where the lanterns will soon arrive.

Inside, five gods remain in place.

Two at tables further from the front, neither have been able to move, much less speak since the play began.

And at the front of the room, Shi Qingxuan rubs Xie Lian’s shoulder, watching his face with concern.

“…your highness?” She murmurs, her tone pinched with anxiety. Even Ming Yi has lingered, standing behind her. Not saying a word, not getting close, but watching him intently. “I know, those plays are awful, but…it’s all pretend, it’s not…”

The Wind Master swallows thickly, wishing he would say sometihng.

“It’s not real,” she reminds him—though really, it feels like she’s reminding herself. “Mortals just make up dramatic stories like that, the truth is always much more boring…”

After all, none of the other plays displayed tonight were real, either. They were all exaggerated, twisted, or outright false.

“…Right?” She questions, starting to wonder, because Xie Lian has been quiet for so…

“Right,” the prince agrees—and now, that tone is back.

Calm, measured—and gentle. Not frightened or bothered, like before.

“None of that was true,” Xie Lian smiles, reaching over to pat her arm gently. “I’m sorry I reacted that way, I was just so surprised.”

Shi Qingxuan stares, unsure—and Ming Yi remains expressionless.

“…You were?”

“Yes,” Xie Lian laughs gently, shaking his head. “That didn’t happen. Many stories like that went around after the fall of Xianle in order to make me look weak. I just…forgot how colorful they were.”

“You just…” The Wind Master frowns, watching him closely.

“…you seemed upset, your highness.”

“I was,” Xie Lian admits. “The name Bai Wuxiang brings up bad memories, but…” He smiles wryly, shaking his head. “Do you think I would be sitting here, talking to you right now, if anything like that had actually happened?”

Admittedly, no. Being stabbed a hundred times…

Even a god would have difficulty surviving that. Or maintaining their sanctity in the aftermath. And even if they did…

It’s hard to believe they could smile, or talk about it calmly, after listening to it all over again.

Shi Qingxuan bites her lip, and…

Xie Lian squeezes her arm again, repeating it serenely:

“It’s just a silly story people tell to frighten children, Shi Qingxuan. I’m alright.”

The prince rises to his feet, pulling her hand gently.

“Don’t you want to see the lanterns?”

She follows him, however reluctantly—and Xie Lian doesn’t look at either one of his friends as he walks past, feeling them follow behind as he finally exits the martial hall.

Part of him dreads the fact that they might try to find him later, and ask him more questions.

Part of him is even more afraid of the possibility that they won’t.

From behind them, unseen by the others, someone grasps Feng Xin’s hand, making trembling fingers grow slightly more steady.

Mu Qing doesn’t look at him, his gaze locked on the path ahead.

They haven’t spoken since the day Crimson Rain Sought Flower broke into the Heavens. Actually, Mu Qing hasn’t spared a single look in Feng Xin’s direction.

But now, in a small, private moment, he squeezes the martial god’s hand. A brief, comforting touch.

At first, he’s too surprised to respond, glancing over at Mu Qing’s face.

The stubborn set of his jaw. The trained, uncaring expression.

His hair—

It hurts, looking at Mu Qing when he’s like this. Feng Xin doesn’t know why.

There’s something about the way his hair shines under the starlight that makes his chest feel tight. Like it’s a struggle to breathe.

When Feng Xin tries to squeeze his hand in return, Mu Qing lets go.

Walking faster, disappearing into the crowd of officials without a word.

Being as popular as she is, the Wind Master is able to snag them a spot near the front without a problem, leaning against the railing as she pulls Xie Lian up beside her, smiling. “It always starts slow,” She comments. “But the top ten in the count are always exciting!”

“Yes,” Xie Lian agrees with a smile, happy to be in the open air at least, and slightly less…distracted, hearing her sound so exited. “It’s nice.”

He only attended two or three mid-autumn festivals in the heaven before this, it’s difficult to remember…

But back then, he was always in second place, only beaten by Jun Wu.

This year, he knows he won’t receive any lanterns at all—which is fine, no one expects anything different of him.

The only person left to be disappointed in it is himself, and he’s just fine.

There is one pleasant surprise, to be found in all of this.

Slowly, a gold speck of light, not so different from a small flame or a tiny star, drifts up into the air, floating over their heads.

And Xie Lian—he can actually see it.

Which is a surprise—but it makes sense.

He never knew that the offering lanterns from the mid-autumn festival contained spiritual power, but it certainly explains why they’re so expensive to purchase—and even more difficult to make.

Obviously, only the most powerful gods with devoted hordes of followers would be able to receive them in larger numbers.

Xie Lian smiles faintly, the golden light of the lantern reflected in the shackles of his eyes as it floats overhead.

Pretty.

It’s very pretty.

An announcer calls out over the crowd, reading over the numbers.

“FOR THE RAIN MASTER, YUSHI HUANG…ONE LANTERN!”

Xie Lian pauses, surprised to hear that name.

“…She really only got one?”

Obviously, he isn’t being judgmental. After all, he has none.

But for such an ancient, popular goddess…a patron of agriculture no less…he expected her to receive more than that.

“Oh, yes,” Shi Qingxuan nods, “she orders her followers not to send them—she insists it’s wasteful. She just sends one up for herself each year, and that’s all.”

“Really?” Xie Lian perks up, his tone notably approving. “How economical.”

The Wind Master smiles at him fondly, shaking her head. “She’ll have them leave offerings of vegetables instead—then have them come pick them up the next day, so nothing goes to waste.”

“That is such a good idea…” Xie Lian mutters, rubbing his chin. It’s not as though he has any worshippers to order to do the same, but if he ever does, he’ll have to try and get that message out there.

After all—Gods are around to help mortals, not the other way around.

Shi Qingxuan wasn’t wrong—it is slow going, in the beginning. One by one, minor gods and deities with smaller totals have their names called out, along with their number of lanterns, the names of their temples.

Some even grumble to have received so few.

Xie Lian finds it horribly ungrateful, listening as they complain about their followers not working hard enough.

Considering how expensive the lanterns are, they’re lucky that humans in the mortal realm were able to send as many as they did. How can they complain?

Still, he’s proud when they come to eleventh place, and he hears Lang Qianqiu’s name called out.

It’s impressive, for a martial god his age to rank so high, nearly cracking the prestigious ‘top ten’ in the Battle of the Lanterns.

A gong rings, signaling that they’ve finally entered the final phase, and the crowd stirs with excitement.

From beside him, Shi Qingxuan bounces with happiness, squeezing Xie Lian’s arm, “This means I’m in the top ten, your highness!” She whispers excitedly.

“That’s never happened before!”

Xie Lian can’t help but smile, pleased on her behalf.

“Congratulations, Lady Wind Master—it’s quite an accomplishment.”

She beams, just as tenth place is read out—

“TENTH PLACE—THE PALACE OF QI YING, WITH FOUR HUNDRED AND TWENTY ONE LANTERNS!”

Xie Lian gawks, surprised. After all, that’s quite a big jump from the place below it, and…Quan Yizhen is half Lang Qianqiu’s age.

…Just how powerful is he, anyway?

Still, there’s polite cheers and applause, even if the martial god is too busy beating his own worshippers (who are in the middle of sending up these lanterns, WHILE being beaten by the god they’re offering them to) to accept the praise.

The entire situation is utterly bizarre.

“IN NINTH PLACE, THE EARTH MASTER, MING YI, WITH FOUR HUNDRED AND TWENTY FOUR LANTERNS!”

“MING-XIONG!” Shi Qingxuan gasps, whooping with excitement as she turns around, “YOU MADE NINTH PLACE!”

Everyone else barely claps politely, but she more than makes up for it.

In this form, she’s even shorter than Xie Lian, forced to leap up to fling her arms around the earth master’s neck, feet dangling as she congratulates him. “You deserved more!” She beams up at him, hugging him tightly. “Way, way more!”

“…” Ming Yi rolls his eyes, looking away.

“Who cares,” he mutters.

(Even so, he wraps one arm around the small of her back, making sure she doesn’t stumble back to the ground when her arms grow tired.)

Shi Qingxuan pouts. “I care!” She grumbles. “It’s annoying, waiting for everyone else to notice how AMAZING you are!”

Xie Lian smiles behind his hand, feeling a little bad for Ming Yi, who is clearly embarrassed (but too stubborn and proud to admit it) by Shi Qingxuan’s praise.

Still, it seems like part of him enjoys it.

It’s rare, to see two people so different, but so well suited.

“IN EIGHTH PLACE, THE WIND MASTER, SHI QINGXUAN…WITH FIVE HUNDRED AND TWENTY THREE LANTERNS!”

The crowd erupts with shocked applause—and for someone as popular as Shi Qingxuan, many people cry out her praises.

“AS EXPECTED!”

“CONGRATULATIONS, LADY WIND MASTER!”

Shi Qingxuan glances up at Ming Yi, still dangling from around his neck, biting her lip—practically vibrating with excitement.

“…” The raven haired man rolls his eyes once more, but…

She sees the slightest twinkle there—

“Go on and gloat, you big baby.”

Shi Qingxuan lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding, smiling brighter than any of the lanterns pouring into the sky in her name.

Quickly, she drops to the ground, running to the railing again to greet the roaring crowds, jumping and waving.

Ming Yi leans back against the pillar behind him, crossing his arms, watching her with the smallest of smiles on his face.

“GE!” She cries out, brimming with pride and happiness, “I MADE EIGHTH! DID YOU SEE?”

And just as quickly, that smile fades.

From his place at the head of the crowd, Shi Wudu hums, fanning himself, “Of course you did.”

As if such a thing was only to be expected.

“Next year, you’ll do even better.”

Shi Qingxuan’s smile fades slightly, and Xie Lian feels…a very specific kind of sympathy.

The Water Master isn’t being cruel. His words are technically praise, and yet…

It’s the mere expectation of greatness—perfection, even—that can make one’s accomplishments feel like less. And the threat of disappointment so much greater.

Xie Lian knows the feeling all too well.

Still, the Water Master is proud of Shi Qingxuan. Xie Lian knows that from their conversation before, when Xie Lian returned to the grand martial hall after Hua Cheng swept him away.

He just wishes that Shi Qingxuan’s older brother had an easier time showing it.

“IN SEVENTH PLACE, THE PALACE OF LING WEN, WITH FIVE HUNDRED AND THIRTY SIX LANTERNS!”

Absolutely none of the civil gods congratulate him, doing little more than clapping politely. Shi Wudu, however, grins, poking his friend lightly in the arm.

“When’s the celebratory feast?”

“No, no,” Pei snorts, catching Ling Wen in a headlock from the other side, ruffling his hair as the other martial gods shout out their congratulations, “Drinking and women, that’s how a winner celebrates!”

“Pei!” The Water Master scolds him. “You’ll make him blush!”

Ling Wen rolls his eyes, but squished between the two of them…

The Civil God actually, for once, seems happy and relaxed.

“…Yeah,” he smirks, glancing over at Shi Wudu, “You can show me your female form, and I’ll buy you a drink.”

Pei chokes on his own laughter.

“OI! Let’s not take it that far!”

“What?” The Water Master arches an eyebrow at him, hanging off of Ling Wen’s other side with a teasing smile. “You said you liked my female form.”

“But—!”

“Don’t be selfish, Pei,” Ling Wen snorts, enjoying seeing him so riled.

“You already said, that’s how a winner celebrates!”

Their ribbing carries on as the rest of the lanterns drift up, and Xie Lian can see what Shi Qingxuan meant, when she explained the concept of the “three tumors.”

Pei Ming, Ling Wen, and Shi Wudu do stand apart from the rest.

But the friendship that runs between the three of them seems to be deep—and genuine.

To the point where it almost aches, reminding Xie Lian of those who stood beside him before. How the three of them stood apart from the others—but always close to one another.

And, as though prompted by his thoughts alone—

“IN SIXTH PLACE, THE PALACE OF NAN YANG, WITH FIVE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY TWO LANTERNS!”

Ah.

Xie Lian smiles, lifting his hands to clap for his friend as the other martial gods cheer.

He—

“IN FIFTH PLACE, THE PALACE OF XUAN ZHEN, WITH FIVE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY THREE LANTERNS!”

…They’ve both done rather well, haven’t they?

“…Are they normally so close together in number?” He murmurs, watching the lanterns flood up towards the sky curiously.

After all, it would make sense for it to get more competitive, the closer you get to the top.

“…Not THAT close,” Shi Qingxuan shakes her head, “but the followers for those two make it a competition between, always trying to one up the other.”

Now, isn’t that familiar.

“Usually they’ll be rushing to beat the other out until the last second. It looks like Xuan Zhen finally edged one out this year…”

(Usually, Nan Yang eeks it out by two or three lanterns.)

Still, neither of the martial gods in question seem to care.

Even Mu Qing, who has never before achieved the top five, can’t even manage a smile.

His lips turn up in a mere show of obligation, but it’s clear that there’s no real joy in it.

He can only think about…

“IN FOURTH PLACCE, THE PALACE OF MING GUANG, FIVE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY LANTERNS!”

Every martial god immediately leaps forward, crying out praise, applauding the general. Xie Lian claps too, but…he’s surprised it was close to Feng Xin and Mu Qing at all.

Not to say that his friends are weak—they aren’t.

But in means of power and the number of worshippers—Pei Ming is by far the strongest martial god (aside from the obvious winner.)

And Xie Lian isn’t the only one surprised.

Even Shi Qingxuan sounds…bothered.

“…That’s a lot less than last year,” she mutters, her brow furrowed.

A hundred less, to be more specific.

Likely due to the highly public scandal of Pei Xiu’s banishment. Without the strong foundation the god already had, he might have lost even more than that.

Xie Lian can’t help but feel a little bit responsible, even if the general didn’t seem to blame him.

Ling Wen doesn’t congratulate him, simply patting his shoulder, and…The Water Master squeezes his arm, looking up at him.

“They’ll be back next year, Pei. It will pass.”

“…” The Martial God glances down at him, offering a half hearted smile.

The Water Master, always so guarded and jaded, seems to sincerely believe that.

It’s funny, because really—it’s easy to come to the conclusion that Shi Wudu doesn’t believe in anything but himself.

But that isn’t true.

“You’re sure?”

No one is looking at them, awaiting the next group of lanterns, watching the mortal realm below.

As such, no one sees the look that is shared.

“Even if I have to drag them up myself.”

Pei clicks his tongue, pretending to be disapproving.

“Such a tyrant,” he murmurs.

His gaze, however, is warm.

“AND FINALLY…” The announcer cries, an entire horde of lights bursting through the opening, “THE PALACE OF THE WATER MASTER, WITH SEVEN HUNDRED AND EIGHTEEN LANTERNS!”

Gasps echo throughout.

Jun Wu’s total was announced at the beginning, of course—he’s rarely ever counted in the ranking, as it would be considered unfair.

A thousand lanterns.

But Shi Wudu has now come closer than anyone else has, less than three hundred lanterns short of his total.

Actually rivaling him.

Even in Xie Lian’s day, when lanterns were far more difficult to come by, he didn’t come that close. Not even proportionally.

It’s quite the accomplishment.

The crowd absolutely roars with applause, louder than any before, civil and martial gods alike.

But the Water Master, even in light of such a rare achievement, doesn’t turn his eyes away from Pei for even a moment.

It seems to matter very little to him.

Pei, however, smiles wider than he has all night, leaning down to whisper in his ear—something that no one else hears.

“Look at you go, kid.”

Shi Wudu’s eyes widen slightly.

“I’m proud of you.”

Now, they grow as wide as they could possibly be—and his cheeks…turn somewhat pink.

That that never happens, not in public—and he has to snap his fan open in front of his face in order to hide it.

“I’m four centuries old,” he grumbles, glaring up at him sharply. “Don’t call me that.”

Pei throws his head back with a laugh, and before Shi Wudu can continue chewing him out, Ling Wen pulls him into a brief—tight—hug.

“It better be a celebratory festival, not just a feast.”

The Water Master rolls his eyes, opening his mouth to say something about having enough of festivals after this, but…

He stops, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“…Hold on,” he mutters, shaking his head, “There’s something off with the count.”

“What are you—?”

“That was nine.”

Xie Lian hasn’t even noticed the issue, too busy being hugged and spun around by Shi Qingxuan, who is still celebrating the Water Master’s win.

“That’s MY BROTHER! Did you see?! That’s MY gege!”

“Yes,” Xie Lian can’t help but laugh affectionately, nodding in agreement.

“That’s your big brother!”

The celebration and mirth fades, however, when he starts to hear the whispers.

“…Someone beat the water master?”

“No, no, that can’t be right…”

“Could it be that Pei’s numbers weren’t actually so low this year?”

“Even if they weren’t…”

“Shi Wudu’s numbers were high enough this year to beat Pei at his best…”

So, what on earth…?

“Hey—look!”

The Heavenly Court turns in unison, looking down at the opening to the mortal realm below, Xie Lian among them.

Just in time to see an explosion of light.

So bright, it fills the entire night sky.

An ocean of lanterns, so many of them, their reflections completely drown out the cursed glow of Xie Lian’s shackles. And he—

He’s seen so many things in the last eight hundred years. Some good, some bad.

But nothing like this.

So bright, that it’s almost like seeing the stars again.

Like that night on Mount Yu Jun, with the butterflies—but this—

Xie Lian gasps quietly, tilting his chin back, attempting to take in the sheer scope of them.

They must be Jun Wu’s, but…

Suddenly, Xie Lian notices that everyone standing near him has gone completely silent, standing back to give him a much wider berth than they did before.

“T…” The announcer stammers, “THREE THOUSAND AND ONE LANTERNS…”

That many? How—?

“…FOR THE CROWN PRINCE OF XIANLE!”

For a moment, there’s only shocked silence.

Xie Lian stops, staring out at the light surrounding him, his jaw hanging open.

“…Me?” He whispers, disbelieving, countless sparks of light reflected in his eyes.

“You,” Shi Qingxuan agrees faintly, equally stunned.

And Xie Lian isn’t the only one who has a hard time believing it.

As a matter of fact, some officials openly protest the call.

“There must be a mistake!”

“Are those even real lanterns?! They could be fakes!”

Xie Lian can’t imagine why anyone would do that—except as a prank.

Which isn’t beyond the realm of possibility, of course—but that’s quite a bit of effort for a simple joke, and Xie Lian can’t imagine anyone caring enough about him to do that.

Then again, he can’t imagine anyone caring enough to send that many real lanterns, either.

Ling Wen steps back from examining the list, shaking his head, speaking loudly and clearly over the protests of the crowd:

“They’re all real.”

Then, over the outburst of shock in response to that—

“And clearly labeled, too. They’re for the crown prince.”

“But! But…who—?!”

Ling Wen picks out one lantern from the horde, checking the label. “One is from the Shrine of The Crown Prince of Xianle in the city of Gusu…”

Xie Lian perks up, surprised, and…

Genuinely touched.

He…he has a shrine in Gusu?

They…built one for him?

Honestly, given the fact that it’s only been a couple of months, and the city was left in absolute disarray…the fact that they took the time to do that, and they were even able to scrape together enough for just one lantern…

Xie Lian swallows hard, his chest filled with warmth

Well, that lantern is real, then.

The rest are definitely a mistake, but—still.

He got a lantern! An entire lantern, just for him! His first offering in eight hundred years!

He—he has a shrine—one that he didn’t build himself!

He—He needs to visit, and bring some charms!

Oh, and he’ll have to tell them to offer vegetables next year, instead. If they even want to make offerings next year. If they don’t, Xie Lian won’t mind!

Just the one is plenty!

He presses his hands to his cheeks, struggling to contain the sudden rush of…happiness.

He really isn’t used to it anymore—it’s a little difficult to handle!

That’s when Ling Wen finishes his survey of the other lanterns, speaking to the crowd:

“The other three thousand are clearly labeled in his name…sent from Qiandeng temple.”

…Qiandeng Temple?

Several people glance around, speaking among themselves, trying to figure out of anyone has heard of the place before—and no one has.

Even Xie Lian feels compelled to admit: “…I’ve never heard of it either, actually.”

But…

He has a temple?

An entire temple? Just for him?

But…why?

It makes sense, with Gusu. He helped free the city. Even if the shrine and the lantern was more than he expected in return, Xie Lian understands why they would do that.

But…he can’t think of anyone else who would bother with that.

After all, it’s a complete waste. Why build a shrine to him, when other gods can actually provide something to their worshippers?

Who would go through all of that effort, knowing they would receive absolutely nothing in return? People don’t just—

“Ah,” Pei Ming smirks, his arms slung around Shi Wudu and Ling Wen’s shoulders as he speaks up, his voice easily carrying across the crowd, “I told all of you—Crimson Rain Sought Flower didn’t kidnap the Crown Prince with ill intentions.”

Xie Lian stares, his lips parted.

Well—he’s right. Hua Cheng was only trying to help him. But what does that have to do with—?

That’s when he notices it.

See, the spiritual shell around any blessing lantern is gold, a byproduct of the spell lifting them up to the heavens.

But the flames inside these lanterns…

…They’re burning crimson.

Xie Lian stares, his hands still pressed against his cheeks, eyes wide.

Oh.

One Lantern floats down to hover in front of his face.

Hua Cheng…

The prince swallows hard, reaching out to take the lantern between his hands.

…Hua Cheng did this.

/Ba-bump./

Hua Cheng did this…for him.

He can hear people around muttering that it must be some sort of taunt to the heavens. Spitting in their faces by turning the Battle of the Lanterns into a joke, but…

All of the sudden, a silver butterfly springs from the lantern.

Several people nearby scream and jump back—but Xie Lian doesn’t even flinch when the creature flutters forward, landing on the tip of his nose before dissolving in a shower of silver sparks.

And he can’t help but laugh happily, holding the lantern close against his chest.

In that moment, the prince knows two things:

First, that whatever reason Hua Cheng sent so many lanterns, it wasn’t as a joke. He would never make Xie Lian the punchline.

Second: Xie Lian realizes, in that moment, how badly he wants to see him.

It wasn't as though he hadn't been aware of it before. There were moments in the last few weeks when he wondered if San Lang would visit the shrine.

After all, he had warned Xie Lian that he might 'get sick of him' if he gave him free reign to visit, but...Then, he didn't.

And Xie Lian hadn't held that against him. Hua Cheng is a busy man, and there was every chance that he had only said that to be nice, but...

The crown prince clutches the blessing lantern against his chest, looking at the flood of them still rising through the air.

All this time...was Hua Cheng preparing this?

Xie Lian bites his lip, fingers crinkling the paper sides of the lantern for a moment before he remembers his strength, not wanting to crush it accidentally.

Just for him, who hadn't been likely to receive a single lantern?

Xie Lian, he...

It's been such a long time since anyone worked so hard, just to do something kind for him.

Finally, he lets go of the lantern, allowing it to float back up and join the rest.

But his hands are still pleasantly warm from where they held it.

Xie Lian wants to see him.

To thank him, of course. And to ask him about how Paradise Manor is doing. Oh, and to tell him what a help Shuo has been. And to ask him what he thinks of Ming Yi's theories about Pei, Xie Lian...doesn't trust his own instincts with that.

(Unlike before, when he received his lantern from Gusu, the thought of asking Hua Cheng to send vegetables next year doesn't cross Xie Lian's mind, not once.)

Debate still echoes across the pavilion, with everyone trying to discredit the prince's win, but...

"Congratulations."

The Emperor's voice forces everyone else to fall silent, stunned at first. After all--if there was some form of cheating going on, he was the one robbed of a win, but...

On the contrary, he's the first to congratulate the prince, leaning his chin on his hand as he watches the lanterns drifting overhead.

"Xianle has always had a way of creating miracles..." He muses, his lips twisting into a small smile.

Half fond, half something else.

A darker emotion lingers behind his gaze; faint and unknowable.

Xie Lian shakes his head, his eyes never leaving the sky above.

"I had nothing to do with this, my lord." He replies.

(It's rare that he forgets to refer to himself in the third tense, speaking to Jun Wu.)

This was all San Lang.

He's the amazing one, not Xie Lian.

Once she recovers from the shock, Shi Qingxuan finally manages to congratulate him, wrapping her arms around the prince as she jumps up and down, cheering him on.

Few other gods do, but the prince doesn't mind.

Despite being one of those slighted by Xie Lian’s sudden win, Shi Wudu doesn’t seem to mind. Instead, he’s simply listening to Pei and Ling Wen making plans to celebrate in the mortal realm—drawing Shi Qingxuan’s attention.

“Ge, are you going with them?”

“…No,” the Water Master shrugs. “I have business with the emperor.

“Are you looking to take his place?” Ling Wen questions, his previously neat hair style askew from Pei’s rough housing. “We’d be delighted.”

That’s a lie, and both Pei and Shi Qingxuan roll their eyes in unison

“Actually, I already have plans,” she mutters, glancing over at Xie Lian. “What about you? You’re welcome to join, your highness!”

“…” The prince finally manages to break his gaze from the lanterns, lowering his chin. “Actually, I plan on returning to my shrine.”

The Wind Master frowns, glancing over at Ming Yi, but…as per usual, he’s not any help. Actually, he somehow managed to sneak an entire lamb shank out of the feast, and has taken to tearing hunks out of it with his teeth.

“You’re sure? It’s a night for celebration!”

“I need to check on things,” Xie Lian explains. “And after that, I need to thank…” his voice fades, and he’s almost surprised to find himself…sheepish. “I need to thank San Lang.”

“Ah,” Shi Qingxuan perks up, her eyes wide. “Safe travels to you then, your highness!”

Xie Lian nods, stepping back from the crowds. She offers to help him descend, of course—and as enjoyable as that sounds, the prince wants her to be able to enjoy the rest of the celebration with Ming Yi.

Ruoye shivers around his neck, still overwhelmed from all the excitement.

Xie Lian reaches down to stroke it gently, “It’s alright,” he murmurs. “I know you don’t want to bind Qi Rong again when we get back, but…I can give you a bath soon, how does that sound?”

The bandage curls against his skin, sulking.

“…I can try to find fancy soap?”

It’s not particularly comforting, but it’s more luxury than what Ruoye usually gets, so…

“Wait.”

His steps halt in the city street, just before the gates leading down to the mortal realm below.

He’s half relieved that they stopped him. Half dreading the reason why.

Feng Xin was the one who spoke first, but once the word is out of his mouth, he falls silent again, hanging his head.

His lips are pressed together tightly, hands balled up into fists by his sides.

Xie Lian is facing away from them both, his expression hidden from view.

"...Congratulations," Feng Xin mutters, and for a moment, in spite of everything, Xie Lian almost forgets what he's being congratulated for.

If not for the lights floating overhead--the only lights that he can see--the anxiety of this moment would have made him forget.

"...Thank you," Xie Lian mumbles, not realizing how hard he's biting his lip--not until the skin nearly breaks. "I was glad, to see the two of you do so well..."

After all, ranking only beneath Pei and the Water Master is quite an achievement, but...

"...I was just going," he mutters, swallowing hard. "I have things I need to--"

"We're really not going to talk about it?"

Feng Xin is prone to frustration. Aggression is his means for masking anxiety. Xie Lian knows that.

It's just rare for Feng Xin to be frustrated with him.

“…About what?”

It might sound like he’s playing dumb—but he isn’t. There’s an edge to his voice. A hunch to his shoulders.

Mu Qing’s arms tighten where they’re crossed over his chest—but, for once, he’s oddly quiet.

“The play!” Feng Xin stares at the back of his head intently

“You expect us to hear that…and then what, just…nothing?”

“…” Xie Lian doesn’t look back at either one of them. “It was just a play, there’s nothing to talk about.”

Feng Xin grits his teeth, hanging his head once more.

Slowly, his attention turns to the one person who hasn’t said a word:

“…Did you know?!”

Mu Qing starts, sending him a shocked look, proverbial hackles rising defensively.

“Why the fuck would you ask me that?”

“There’s nothing to know,” Xie Lian repeats. “It was just a…”

“…” Mu Qing sends Feng Xin a frustrated glare, but when he speaks, his voice is…

Well, for once in his life, the god actually sounds…gentle.

“…It did happen, your highness,” he mutters. Quietly, but firm.

Xie Lian doesn’t turn around, his heart in his throat.

Of course, they know.

‘It hurts.’

Those were the words he said before, on Mount Yu Jun. Just before he passed out.

The words he said in his sleep, trembling with fright when Mu Qing was trying to treat his injured arm.

And if that wasn’t enough…

They saw his reaction.

Shi Qingxuan—she’s only known Xie Lian for a month at most. Xie Lian can pull off a fake smile and a calm voice, and have her perceive that as calm.

Not with them.

But it’s Mu Qing’s response that surprises him.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” he mutters. “But…we know.”

Feng Xin sends him a look that seems…

Betrayed isn’t the right word. That implies that he expected Mu Qing to be on his side.

But on this—on this one thing—he seems to have genuinely thought they were going to be a united front.

“Like hell he doesn’t!”

Feng Xin glances back and forth—from Xie Lian’s back, turned away and silent, to Mu Qing’s guarded, distant expression, and—

“How are we supposed to just ignore that?!”

Mu Qing’s arms are firmly crossed over his chest, a defensive stance, just as closed off as Xie Lian’s.

“…There are some things you don’t make a person talk about, Feng Xin,” he mutters, and Feng Xin…

His tone is angry. His stance is angry. Everything about him reeks frustration.

But his gaze is agonized.

“…Right,” he mutters, his tone somewhat raw as he stares Mu Qing down, all while the silver haired god refuses to look back at him, “you two have that in common.”

Having things—painful things—that they refuse to speak of.

“…Talking about it won’t help—”

“HOW THE FUCK DO YOU KNOW?!”

Mu Qing and Xie Lian each recoil in their own way. The martial god shrinking back slightly, while the prince jumps at the sudden shout.

“We’ve spent the last EIGHT CENTURIES not talking about ANYTHING! Guess what?! THAT hasn’t helped EITHER!”

Xie Lian can’t seem to make himself turn around, because—

If he does, he’ll see the hurt in Feng Xin’s eyes, and he doesn’t think he can stand that right now.

Mu Qing, however, does’t back down.

“You could have picked a better fucking moment!”

“When?!”

Feng Xin throws his hands up. “Because there will ALWAYS be a reason to put it off, or to avoid it! Or, even worse, you just—you just DISAPPEAR for centuries, and—”

“—Feng Xin—” Xe Lian tries, just as Mu Qing reaches out, however reluctantly, placing a hand on his shoulder—

“NO!” Feng Xin wrenches away from him, away from both of them, taking a couple of steps back. “The two of you—you ALWAYS act like I’m this oblivious idiot who can’t understand shit, but—” He grits his teeth, shaking his head, “Neither of you EVER tell me ANYTHING!”

“I didn’t—”

“And then it’s, ‘it’s not a good time,’ and ‘he doesn’t have to talk about it,’ but—” He presses his hands against his temples, his shoulders shaking. “That just means that we are NEVER going to talk about it.”

He isn’t wrong.

“It’s not like we’re gonna sit down and have a nice heart to heart about the coffin thing either, right?” He shakes his head, “We just…sailed right on into the next crisis, didn’t we?”

Because that’s what they always seem to do.

Xie Lian finally forces himself to turn around—and when he does, he’s relieved that he can’t see the look on Feng Xin’s face. He doesn’t think he could stand that.

Mu Qing isn’t given the same luxury—and he can barely stand to look at him.

“…Bai Wuxiang is dead.”

The prince has to fight to keep his voice even, just saying that name. “He’s been dead for eight centuries.”

“…And did knowing that make it any easier for you to sit through that?” Feng Xin asks, already knowing the answer. “Do you think that made it any easier for us to hear?”

No, it—

Xie Lian hangs his head, pressing his palm against his forehead, taking a long, slow breath.

No, it didn’t.

“…It’s been eight centuries,” he repeats those words again—but this time his voice…it’s quiet. Tired. “Why does it even matter anymore?”

Mu Qing stares at him, opening his mouth, struggling for words—but he can’t seem to find them.

After all, he doesn’t have just the play on his mind.

Before that, there was the sword.

Knowing that, all this time, he…

“…I don’t know why it doesn’t matter to you.”

Feng Xin’s voice has always been strong. Steady.

Not right now.

“It matters to me, because—I didn’t promise to protect you until it got hard,” he croaks, nails biting into his palms. “I promised to protect you forever.”

Now, it’s wavering, and Xie Lian’s heart aches with it.

“And one day, you—” He sucks in a deep breath, his eyes stinging, “…you just stopped letting me.”

Xie Lian has perfected the art of selective memory. Keeping the things that make the days go by easier, working hard to forget the things that hurt to remember.

“Then, I just had to sit there, listening to—‘Feng Xin, help me,’” his voice cracks, and this time, when Mu Qing places a hand on his elbow, he doesn’t have it in him to shove the other god away.

Xie Lian was almost able to forget.

‘Stop following me, Feng Xin.’

‘You can’t help me.’

He hurt Feng Xin, back then.

And Xie Lian can’t explain it to him—not fully—without hurting him even more.

He can’t explain what Bai Wuxiang did, wearing his friend’s face.

That would hurt so much more.

“…I don’t think you’re an idiot, Feng Xin,” Xie Lian mumbles, wanting to reach out for him, but it feels as though he’s rooted in place. “And if you want to talk, I just…I don’t…”

Xie Lian has no idea what there is to say.

“When?”

The prince winces, biting his lip.

“When did it happen?”

“That really won’t—”

“Was it before, or after?”

Xie Lian knows what he means, of course.

Before Xie Lian sent Feng Xin away, or after.

“…” The prince grits his teeth, closing his eyes tightly. “It was before.”

“And you just—you never said?”

Xie Lian probably would have, if he hadn’t forced Feng Xin to leave immediately after that. He would have told someone.

It’s just…there was nobody around left to tell.

“Was it during those years you were off on your own?!”

“No…” Xie Lian mumbles, grasping the chain around his neck. He can understand why Feng Xin might think that. After all, the prince was so profoundly damaged when he returned, but…

That was from losing Hong’er. Which, in the long run, hurt so much more than the stabbing.

“Then when could it have—?”

There’s a certain level of irony packed into this moment, when Xie Lian’s patience frays, and he just wants to say whatever Feng Xin needs to hear.

“It was after the fight the three of us had—”

“Which one?!”

“Feng Xin,” Mu Qing yanks at his arm.

“Just let it go, this isn’t—”

“The last one!”

The words fall out of his mouth, and Xie Lian can’t see the look on Feng Xin’s face. The way his eyes slowly widen with recognition.

But that isn’t the worst part, or where the irony lies.

There’s a pained, broken sound.

So often, Mu Qing has tried to hurt someone with his words, only to have them land on someone he never intended.

Always sharpening his knives—but never as good at aiming them.

It’s almost fair, then, that the /one/ argument he didn’t help start was the one where he got hurt.

Because—

‘You know I—I really felt bad for you, when you told me about that guy you were in love with.’

He takes a step back from both of them.

Because that means…

‘I guess it must be a relief that he never had to see this, isn’t it?’

…It was Mu Qing’s fault.

He was the reason Xie Lian ran off by himself that day.

He was the reason that fight happened, to begin with.

He should have known better, than going back there. Trying to fix it, when they—

When Feng Xin and Xie Lian—they didn’t want him to come back.

Mu Qing knew that.

And he’s regretted the things he said that night. More than he’s ever been able to say.

But he never knew the extent of the harm he caused.

Feng Xin stares at him, not quite understanding, but slightly panicked to see—

In 800 years, he’s almost never seen Mu Qing in tears.

The most vivid instance he can remember was when they were young. During the war, when one of Mu Qing’s sisters…caught it.

Back then, there was absolutely nothing that could be said to comfort him.

“…Hey,” Feng Xin croaks, reaching out to grab his shoulder.

“What…what the fuck…” There’s no bite to his words, just… “Don’t…”

Worry.

That’s when it clicks for Xie Lian, and his face falls.

“Oh…” He swallows hard, taking a step forward. “Oh, Mu Qing, you didn’t…”

It wasn’t his fault.

They both made mistakes.

Xie Lian only hurt Feng Xin once. And he hurt him deeply, but—

Mu Qing has always been the most complicated relationship in his life. A bond somewhere between friendship and servitude, strained by imbalances of power.

Marked with so many moments of unintentional cruelty.

Mu Qing is bitter, insecure, and wrathful. When he's unkind, it's obvious--and everyone sees it.

But coming from someone like Xie Lian--someone gentle, beloved, and admired...

His moments of immaturity went unnoticed.

And he was unkind to Mu Qing. More times than he can count.

So many tiny moments of carelessness, when they were growing up.

Most people would never think back on them. But Xie Lian--

He's had 800 years to do nothing but think about those things, and there are two moments that have always stood apart.

Not that they were particularly cruel--but simply because of how careless he was. How self centered.

From the day he met Hong'er for the first time.

He had wanted to make a more convincing entrance as a 'god,' planning to leap down onto the Martial Avenue from above.

He asked Mu Qing--who already had so much on his own plate, getting the prince prepared for the parade, preparing for his own role, along with his other duties--to go and tell the Guoshis of his plan.

Then, allowed Feng Xin to berate Mu Qing for failing to deliver it properly.

And looking back on it, Xie Lian never paid attention to or cared much about the way Mei Nianqing and the others treated Mu Qing.

It wasn't of enough importance to be noticed.

Or how, later, when Hong'er was clinging to his robes, Mu Qing had said something about them getting stained with blood and dirt...

And Xie Lian's response had been to snap at him.

To say, 'you'll just have to wash them, then.'

Because that was Mu Qing's job.

But you don't speak to a friend that way.

You don't treat someone you respect that way.

Mu Qing has said worse to him. Far, far worse. But on far fewer occasions.

Xie Lian has years of small, passive moments of unkindness to reconcile himself with.

And, of course--

'I was HAPPY, when you left!'

'It was a RELIEF, so just--just GO!'

Mu Qing hurt Xie Lian. He hurt him deeply.

But that doesn't mean Xie Lian hasn't made his own mistakes, and he sees no point in weighing their wrongs against each other.

He's never once blamed Mu Qing for what happened that day. Blamed him for his words, yes. Blamed him and Feng Xin for constantly letting their arguments get out of control, but...

What happened in the temple--that will never be Mu Qing's fault.

That's no one's fault but his.

Xie Lian caused Bai Wuxiang's descent upon Xianle.

He brought it upon himself.

And he knew, that day--even when Wu Ming's ghost fire tried to stop him, over and over again--that he was chasing the calamity into a trap.

He just didn't care.

What happened after...was his fault.

Knowing that, and listening to Mu Qing's pained, shuddering breaths--

That makes it so much worse.

"You didn't..." Xie Lian repeats, trying to find the words to explain it, to make Mu Qing see that he doesn't blame him, but...

There are tear tracks on Mu Qing's cheeks.

Wetness dripping from his chin. Silent, other than the broken intake of his breaths.

Feng Xin's hand tightens on his shoulder, his expression dark, strained.

And of course, Mu Qing knows he must be angry with him too.

Feng Xin must hate him for this, too.

Because Mu Qing does. Because Mu Qing always has.

(The truth, however, is that the Martial God simply can't stand to see him in tears.)

"..." He tugs his shoulder out of Feng Xin's grip, taking another step back.

They were always better as a duo.

The Crown Prince fo Xianle and his personal guard. Loyal to the end.

Mu Qing was always the one thing that didn't fit. The part of the story that didn't belong.

Always wanting things he can't have. Losing his temper. Saying things that he can't take back.

And nobody ever wanted him there. He was placed by Xie Lian's side because of a secret.

A crime. Their friendship was built on a bribe of silence.

Feng Xin certainly wasn't happy with his presence. Xie Lian was kind enough to tolerate him.

Neither of them ever wanted to be his friend.

Neither of them ever wanted Mu Qing there in the first place.

And neither of them ever wanted Mu Qing to come back.

Because when it's just Xie Lian and Feng Xin, they don't fight. Xie Lian--

Xie Lian doesn't get hurt.

Because they love one another.

They always have.

But never him.

And why should they?

His jaw trembles, and the tears keep accelerating on their own.

"Mu Qing..." Xie Lian tries again, "Please, don't--"

When Mu Qing speaks, something in the prince's heart cracks.

"...Con-C..." he chokes, his voice cracking and wobbling with every syllable.

Because for once, Mu Qing isn't lashing out.

"Congratulations...for the lanterns, your highness."

Mu Qing spins on his heel, walking away as quickly as he can, before he can say anything else.

Before he can ruin, break, or hurt anyone else.

Feng Xin reaches after him, taking one step--then looking back at Xie Lian, clearly torn between the two.

The Prince stares after Mu Qing's fading aura, biting his lip.

"...I'm okay, Feng Xin," he mumbles. "Go after him."

It's a few moments of hesitation.

Because on one hand--Xie Lian is clearly the least distressed of the three. And on the other...

How can he leave, having just learned--?

"Go," Xie Lian repeats, with the message behind it clear, even while it remains unspoken:

He needs you.

"..." Feng Xin grits his teeth, wishing that they just...that things were...

"...Alright," he mutters, turning around, hurrying off after him.

They'll have to talk about it, now. Eventually.

If they don't, and the wounds inflicted are left to fester...

Xie Lian can put things out of his head, when he needs to.

Mu Qing can't.

Things like this--they eat him alive, straight down to the bone.

And Xie Lian would go with him, but...

If he was kind to Mu Qing right now, that would only make his friend feel worse.

The best thing he can do, for now, is give Mu Qing space.

(And hope that Feng Xin irritates him enough that he forgets to feel miserable.)

He descends from the Heavens, still aching, slightly bruised from the emotional turmoil of the evening, but...

The lights floating overhead make it hard to feel despair, or loneliness.

The Mid Autumn Festival has always been one of the largest affairs in the Heavens, with celebrations often pouring on into the next day, sometimes even the next week.

But one god isn't celebrating.

Shin Qingxuan’s slippers are nearly silent against marble floors, arched ceilings near cavernous as she strolls through the halls of their palace.

Things haven’t changed much over the years.

Parts of it are actually modeled after their childhood home.

She can still remember it clearly.

By the time she was ten years old, it was just them. No parents, grandparents, no aunts or uncles…distant cousins, but that was all.

But it was so important to her elder brother that she remembered them.

Their parents didn’t marry for love. Not in the beginning. Their mother initially found their father cold and unforgiving.

Eventually, their father learned that she had a love for song birds, and spared no expense planting a grove of ash trees to attract them.

He would tell her that story when she was small. About how their mother would smile each morning, waking up to the sound of song birds trailing through the open window.

And now, when she hears the birds sing, and the wind stirring leaves in the trees—she remembers her parents.

Their mother used to crave yuèbing, back when she was pregnant with Shi Qingxuan. Filled with lotus paste, soft in texture, sweet on the tongue.

Most people only eat them during the mid autumn festival, but they can be found in the Palace of the Water and Wind Masters year round

There are countless tiny details like that, strewn throughout. So seamless with the rest of the palace, no one knows of Shi Wudu’s secret sentimentality.

But she does.

She steps into her brother’s study, eyeing the stacks of scrolls on the walls.

Collected over the centuries.

Some of them were their grandfather’s, bringing the nostalgic scent of dusty paper and long dried ink.

“…I thought I would find you here,” She comments, leaning against the doorframe. “So much for having business with the emperor.”

Her brother shrugs from behind his desk, not seeming particularly ashamed.

Reports and ledgers are spread out in front of him. He isn’t a civil god—but as the god of wealth, he hasn’t escaped paperwork the way the other elemental masters and martial gods have.

“How did you know I was lying?”

Shi Qingxuan shrugs, fiddling with her fan between her fingers, opening and shutting it. “The emperor was still at the celebration when I left.”

Shi Wudu sighs, leaning away from his desk. “Does this mean you were lying about your plans as well?”

“No,” she mutters, eyes downcast, “I have plans.”

Shi Wudu watches her, asking evenly—

“With Ming Yi?”

His little sister’s lip press together tightly, and the fan snaps shut. “Yes. Why?”

There’s a defiant edge to her tone, and the water master sighs.

“What sort of plans?”

“Hot springs and massages,” she replies sarcastically. “Seriously—you’ve never asked me that before.”

Shi Wudu presses his index finger down on the surface of his desk, smoothing out the bent surface of one of his ledgers.

“You never refused to touch Yan Zhen before.”

Her cheeks heat up, and before she can sputter out something defensive, her brother holds up a hand. “I’m just asking if it’s like that between you two.”

Her mouth screws up, fingers grasping her fan tightly.

“No!” She lies. “But in any case, you should know—”

Shi Wudu rolls his eyes.

“If this is about you being attracted to men…I know.” He points out dryly, and when her lips part with surprise, he has to fight the urge to snort.

Apparently, she thought it was subtle.

“You…do?”

“Our mother guessed when you were three.”

Her brother shrugs, crossing his legs. “She guessed about me too, don’t feel bad.”

She starts, giving him a surprised look—but he doesn’t elaborate on what their mother actually guessed—sexuality or otherwise, so…

“And she…was fine with that?” Shi Qingxuan asks, surprised.

“I was too young for it to be much of an issue by the time she passed, so I don’t know.”

“But…” Shi Qingxuan pushes away from the door frame, stepping into the study fully. “You were betrothed, right?”

To the daughter of another wealthy family, yes—set up when he was seven.

Shi Wudu doesn’t think he would have minded it too badly. She was pretty enough. (Not as much so as him, but few are.) And her personality was tolerable.

“It’s different when you’re the eldest son,” he muses, “but ascending invalidated that contract—lucky me.”

Shi Qingxuan smiles, feeing honestly relieved. There’s no point in telling him about Ming Yi, mostly because…well…

They agreed on keeping that side of their friendship private. Well. More like Ming-Xiong decided, but she didn’t disagree.

Still…

“…If you weren’t bothered about him being a man, then why would it matter it matter if me and Ming-Xiong were…doing that sort of thing?” She mutters, her eyebrows knitting together.

Shi Wudu sits forward with a sigh. “…I don’t care if you’re with a man,” he agrees.

“Just not that one.”

Shi Qingxuan’s eyebrows shoot up, then, her eyes narrow. “…What’s that supposed to mean?”

Her brother watches her, his gaze evaluating.

“Shi Qingxuan…”

“What?!”

“Not that one,” he repeats firmly.

“Why?”

Her eyes are so bright, so ready to defend him.

And her brother’s response, in the face of that, is painfully blunt.

“He isn’t good enough for you.”

“Not good enough—?” Shi Qingxuan’s jaw drops, and her hands drop down to her hips. “Ming-Xiong is BRILLIANT, and he’s funny, and he was ninth in the contest this year!”

“…Shi Qingxuan…”

“You can say it as many times as you want! Shi Qingxuan, Shi Qingxuan, Shi Qingxuan! It doesn’t change the fact that you don’t think ANYONE is good enough for me! Ming-Xiong is great!”

“That’s not true,” Shi Wudu disagrees.

When his sister stares at him, expectant, he actually has to think about it.

“…I’d be fine with Nan Yang.”

Shi Qingxuan practically chokes. “Him?!”

“He’s good looking, isn’t he?”

“That’s not the only requirement!” She sputters. “I’d sooner have Xuan Zhen!”

“Absolutely not,” he brother shakes his head.

“Hah?!”

“Vetoed.”

“I’m FOUR CENTURIES OLD!” She glares, stomping her foot. “You don’t get VETO POWER on the people I have relationships with!”

“Sure, I do.”

“No!”

“Yes.”

“You can’t stop me!”

“Oh,” Shi Wudu smirks, leaning his chin on his hand, “I could just tell them you didn’t stop wetting the bed until you were nine.”

“That—!” She gawks, “That isn’t even TRUE!”

“Yes,” he agrees, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “But who are they going to believe? Me, or you?”

“GEGE!”

He throws his head back, laughing. Not a mean laugh—but easy, relaxed.

He’s only ever like this when it’s just them.

And even if it’s at her expense, Shi Qingxuan is glad to hear him laugh like that.

He hardly ever does it anymore.

“…What makes Nan Yang any better than Ming-Xiong or Xuan Zhen?”

“He doesn’t have anything to hide,” Shi Wudu replies easily, like it’s obvious.

Shi Qingxuan rolls her eyes, crossing her arms. “It’s not Ming-Xiong’s fault he was a spy! It was a mission from the emperor!”

“…” Her brother shrugs. “It seemed a little too easy for him.”

“Don’t blame him for being good at the job YOU picked him out for!” She huffs. “That’s totally unfair!”

“I’m not saying he’s a degenerate or something,” Shi Wudu grouses. “But you could do better.”

“Oh,” Shi Qingxuan laughs, lifting her chin, “Like you and Pei?!”

The expression on her brother’s face momentarily freezes, surprised—and he doesn’t ask, but the question is clear in his eyes.

‘Who told you?’

“…” To which his sister stands there, agape. “…wait…”

She’d thrown the words out there, expecting her brother to immediately laugh it off, or deny it, but…

“…It’s actually true?!”

“Is what true?”

“You and Pei!” Shi Qingxuan snaps, pointing at him, and when he doesn’t answer— “Oh my god, it IS!”

“Don’t be so dramatic—”

“You’re—You’re FUCKING!” She cries, her face going bright red, all the way up to her ears, and now her /brother/ is the one choking.

“SHI QINGXUAN!”

“You’re not DENYING IT!”

“Don’t be so VULGAR!” He glares, using outrage to distract from the heat in his own face.

“But you ARE!”

“You know—I—yes!” He agrees, “But that isn’t the same thing.”

“It’s EXACTLY the same thing!”

“No, it isn’t!”

“That’s just a DOUBLE STANDARD! If we’re talking about who is and isn’t good enough—!”

“Would you calm down and listen before you jump to conclusions?”

She glares, crossing her arms, and Shi Wudu sighs.

“…Pei and I are friends,” he holds up a finger to silence her before she can argue, “and…there is an intimate aspect to that friendship.”

“What does that even mean?!” Shi Qingxuan glares. “Are you in love with him?!”

Shi Wudu isn’t taken by surprise by the accusation, this time.

“Of course not,” he replies. “Do you think I’m stupid? You know how he feels about that sort of thing.”

That makes it easier to lie.

“But he is important to me.”

(The best lies, of course, add layers of truth.)

“…Of ALL the people to do…that…with…”

(It’s an immature way of saying it, but it’s better than her loudly declaring that he and Pei are ‘fucking,’ so he prefers it.)

“…WHY him?! He’s—”

“You don’t know him, Shi Qingxuan.”

“And you don’t know Ming-Xiong, but that didn’t stop you from deciding he’s—!”

“Look,” Shi Wudu cuts her off. “I’m your big brother. It’s my job to worry about that sort of thing—and you tend to see the best in people.”

“I—!”

“And I love that about you.”

Shi Qingxuan falls silent, her eyes widening slightly.

“I don’t want you to look at your friends, and feel unsure.” The Water Master mutters. “So, just let me be the one to worry about it, okay?”

There’s the silent question of course—about the clear double standard.

“Have I ever seemed naive to you?”

Obviously not.

If anything, her brother has always had a jaded, incredibly cynical view of the world, and people—especially men.

“…No…” She admits, biting her lip as her brother looks her in the eye.

“I trust Pei.”

He says the words firmly, without an ounce of doubt. “He would never hurt me.”

He could have said ‘he would never betray me,’ but it’s not as simple as that.

Pei is loyal, but that isn’t unique.

The difference is that Pei is never cruel, even when he could be.

“…I would never hurt you either,” his sister points out, her tone doubtful.

After all, her brother has never expressed such faith in anyone. And—he isn’t even family.

“You would never mean to,” Shi Wudu murmurs.

That isn’t quite the same as agreeing, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

“Just understand—there’s nothing going on between him and me that I can’t handle,” he shrugs. “You don’t need to worry.”

She hardly seems mollified, but there’s something else he’s curious about.

“…If you already had plans with Ming Yi, why come here looking for me, anyway?” He murmurs, tilting his head to the side.

Shi Qingxuan shrugs, glancing towards the ground—suddenly self conscious. “I guess…I just wanted…”

“…Wanted to what?”

“…To check on you,” she mumbles.

“On me?” Her brother arches an eyebrow, visibly surprised. “Why?”

“…You disappeared for three days,” Shi Qingxuan frowns. “And you’re never explained.”

Shi Wudu stares at her for a moment, then he shrugs.

“I was attending to business in the mortal realm.”

That’s what he says.

But it’s never stopped him from answering in their communication array before.

“You didn’t answer me for three days, gege.” Her eyes remain downcast, and her tone is riddled with worry.

“But you knew I was alright.” He reminds her, his gaze unreadable.

After a moment, he gestures with his hand. “Come here.”

She does so without hesitation, walking over to the side of his desk—and he reaches up, grasping the locket hanging around her neck between his fingers.

“You always know that I’m alright,” his tone is gentle, reassuring.

After all, he’s wearing the other half of the set, tucked underneath his robes.

She Qingxuan stares down at it, unable to argue with it’s literal meaning.

Physically, she knows that her brother is alright.

Mentally, however…

She bites her lip, and Shi Wudu sighs.

After taking a moment to think of an appropriate thing to be worried about, he mumbles—

“…I suppose I’m worried about facing my third calamity,” he admits. “It won’t be easy for me this time.”

Her eyes widen, remembering.

“We can talk more—about everything—once that’s over.”

Thankfully she seems to believe that, nodding. “I’ll let you focus on that, then, gege—oh, and I almost forgot,” she rummages around in the folds of her dress for a moment, pulling out a package.

“I bumped into the emperor leaving the celebration—he wanted me to give you this.”

Her brother takes it, not asking any questions, just setting the box down on the table.

“Why don’t you go and enjoy the rest of the celebration?”

“What about you, gege?”

“Oh…” her brother shrugs, “I think I’ve had enough excitement for one day.”

She nods, leaning up to kiss his cheek before sliding down from the desk. “Promise you won’t be lonely?”

He snorts, but indulges her with a nod. “I promise.”

With that, she slips out of the room—and her brother is left alone, looking over ledgers and reports.

But that box has a pointed presence of it’s own. Lingering on his desk—almost like it has a set of eyes, and they’re staring at him.

It’s more than an hour or two before he finally caves, gripping the corner, pulling it towards him.

It was probably intended as a gift for winning the contest. Jun Wu always gives him one (as a show of how gracious, he is, pretending that second place is ‘first.’) And even though Xianle won this year, no one could have predicted that.

But this is no gift.

The dagger gleams up at him, sharp and dangerous. A reminder of that knight.

Shi Wudu stares, his jaw locked.

He’s long since stopped trying to discern Jun Wu’s every motivation behind an action. He’s a man riddled with contradiction, but this—

This is a threat.

Or maybe a warning. It’s difficult to discern which.

Either way, it seems a petty reason to leave such a dangerous weapon with the Water Master, of all people.

Before he can contemplate the matter further, he hears a dull thud and a rattle on the other side of the palace.

“…” The Water Mater covers the box back up, setting it on one of the shelves behind him.

He’s surprised Shi Qingxuan would be back so early. After all, when she’s off with Ming Yi, it’s never brief, but…

When he reaches the entrance hall, it isn’t his sister, no—

It’s Pei.

Steadying a large, potted tree that he clearly stumbled into, rattling against the marble floors before it settles back down.

“…What are you doing here?” Shi Wudu questions, biting back a smile. “I thought you were celebrating with Ling Wen.”

“I…was,” the general agrees.

Shi Wudu crosses his arms, looking him over. He’s slightly disheveled, as though he’s taken a stumble or two on the way here.

“Drinking, women, and all that.”

“Yeah…” Pei is still holding onto the tree, staring at it as though it’s offended him.

“Well…I did most of the drinking, and he…he did the women,” he explains, and Shi Wudu’s smile widens.

“You left early?”

The general’s gaze turns away from the tree, his current adversary, towards his lover—gleaming violet in the dim light.

“…I wanted…to see you…”

The Water Master laughs, covering his mouth as Pei lets go of the plant, making his way over to him. “In this state, I think you’d just pass out on top of me. I’ll pass.”

“I bounce back fast!” The general protests with a slight pout, his brow creasing. “But that…isn’t why I…”

Shi Wudu raises an eyebrow as Pei Ming leans over him. The Water Master has been leaning back against a pillar as he observed him, and the general has both hands braced against it now, just over his head.

“Then why are you here?”

Pei frowns, staring down at him.

Then, his head sinks down, face pressed into the side of Shi Wudu’s neck. It isn’t exactly a seductive technique. He isn’t kissing him. But his nose does brush against the Water Master’s skin as he breathes him in, drawing out a reluctant shiver.

“I’d…make a good husband.”

Shi Wudu chokes, his hand frozen from where it had been moving to pat the back of Pei’s head.

“…What?”

“Before,” he mutters, his tone sulking. “When you said you hadn’t had any suitable candidates.”

What, back during the feast?

“I’m…suitable...”

The Water Master falls silent, too stunned to reply—and Pei noses closer against his neck, one arm dropping down from the pillar over head, wrapping around his waist.

“I know everything about you,” he mumbles—and Shi Wudu’s heart sinks.

“…Not everything…” He mutters.

Pei doesn’t seem to be bothered by that, holding him close.

“I know the important things.”

He lists them off, one by one, mumbling against Shi Wudu’s hair. Words slightly slurred, from the alcohol—but clear.

Pei knows everything he likes. He knows what pisses him off, too.

Pei knows how much he loves his brother. He knows how he works to keep him safe.

Pei has always known what makes him laugh, and…

“I make you happy,” he mumbles, his arm tight around the Water Master’s back, fingers stroking through his hair. “…Don’t I?”

Shi Wudu bites his lip, his throat tight, aching.

“…Yes,” he whispers, reaching up and wrapping his arms around the general’s neck, returning the embrace. “You do.”

Everything is so easy with him. So comfortable and familiar.

Shi Wudu has always been burdened with self awareness.

He knows, at his core, that he is not a good man.

Affection has always been his one redeeming quality.

He isn’t only fond of those close to him—he adores them. With such a ferocity, it blinds him.

And loving Pei Ming—that has always been the sweetest kind of ache.

“…Then why not marry me?” Pei mumbles, sounding somewhat petulant.

The Water Master’s heart is pounding so violently against his ribs, it’s difficult to sound unbothered—but he perseveres.

“You never asked.”

Pei opens his mouth, but the Water Master stop him. “And you’re only saying this now because you’ve been drinking.”

“I am not…” The general grumbles—but still, he presses a kiss against Shi Wudu’s throat, “…I’ve asked someone to marry me before, you know.”

That actually is surprising.

“Did you really?”

“…She said no,” Pei admits.

But that isn’t the point.

The point, is that there have been times in his life where he wasn’t universally opposed to monogamy—or commitment. He’s not incapable.

It just has to be the right person.

“…I was engaged once,” Shi Wudu offers, just to enjoy the sensation of Pei stiffening against him with jealousy. “Back when I was mortal.”

“I’m glad it didn’t work out.”

The Water Master gasps playfully, pretending to be offended. “Pei—don’t you want me to be happy?”

Instead of replying, Pei lifts his head, taking his lips in a searing kiss.

Slightly clumsy, compared to the usual—but still, Shi Wudu’s eyes slip shut, his arms tightening around the general’s neck as he pulls him closer, closer.

Teeth scrape at his lower lip, and he sighs.

“…With me,” the words rumble in Pei’s chest as he bends over him, holding him closer, kissing him deeper.

“Just with me.”

The Water Master shudders, letting him closer, his knees parting under the onslaught.

He supposes Pei was right, he does bounce back fast, doesn’t he?

One leg is already hitched up around the general’s hip by the time their lips part—only for Pei’s mouth to sink back down against his neck, finding soft, sensitive skin. Nipping and biting until Shi Wudu’s breath hitched with want.

“You shouldn’t be…” He protests faintly, pushing at his shoulder. After all—he was injured, before—and he’s been drinking, but—

Pei catches his wrist, pinning it over Shi Wudu’s head as his teeth sink in, leaving a mark.

“‘M fine,” he mumbles, pressing forward with his knee, drawing out a shudder, “Want you…”

It’s not an issue of consent, clearly—he seems plenty cognizant enough to make that decision, and…

Shi Wudu’s eyes roll back into his head, his hips rolling forward with a quiet moan.

At first, it seems okay.

It’s good, with Pei against him, over him. His lips on his skin. There’s a slight tension to it—but that’s not because of him. It’s never because of him.

And it’s fine. Good, even, when Pei’s mouth is under his chin, and his hand is on his hip, but…

At some point, both of his wrists end up pinned over his head, and that tension starts to build—this time, in an unpleasant way.

Normally, he likes being touched like this. Pei knows that. It’s never been a problem before, but now—

Now, he can’t move, and the room is dark, and—

“…Stop!”

The moment he gasps the word out, his voice small, weak, and frightened—his chest fills with shame.

It’s the first time he’s ever said that to Pei.

It’s also the first time anyone has ever listened—because the General is off of him in an instant.

Both of Shi Wudu’s hands cover his mouth, his shoulders trembling as he fights to control his breaths.

What’s wrong with him?

His eyes sting.

It’s just Pei. It—

He swallows hard, his chest heaving.

Pei would never. Why is he—?

Pei Ming watches him from a few feet away, his hands up in front of him in a gesture of surrender.

But his gaze is heavy with worry.

“…What happened?” He questions—and from his tone…he’s clearly sobered up.

The Water Master shakes his head, fighting to even out his breaths.

“…Nothing,” he chokes—feeling lightheaded, because he—

He’s always composed. Always levelheaded.

But something in him cracked that night.

He thought, taking that time to himself, waiting three days until the pain went away—

He thought that meant it was gone.

He thought that meant it was okay.

Like it never happened.

But it’s there now, like a wound ripped open, and it—

(It hurts.)

Shi Wudu shudders, weak gasps slowly building into full blown hyperventilation as he slides down the pillar, sitting on the floor.

“Hey…”

Pei Ming kneels down in front of him, his gaze wracked with concern.

They’ve been in this position before, only with the roles reversed.

It’s not often—but Pei has always had night terrors.

He’s been in too many wars not to.

Shi Wudu never said a word about it, only held him.

He’s always the calm one. Always too mature for his age. Always keeping it together.

Pei doesn’t touch him, but he stays close, a hand held out. Not impatient or demanding, simply waiting until the Water Master is able to take it.

When he does, his fingers are trembling.

“Look at me.”

He can’t seem to bring himself to at first, but with slow, gentle coaxing—eventually he does.

Panicked—but more than that, ashamed.

It takes several minutes of coaching to help him settle his breathing—and even then, the trembling doesn’t stop.

Quietly, Pei asks him again:

“What happened?”

There’s a hard edge under the gentleness of his tone—not directed at him, but it’s there.

Anger.

Because clearly, something did happen.

Something serious.

“…Nothing,” Shi Wudu croaks, his voice raw.

“Nothing happened.”

There’s no point in pressing him. No matter how angry and worried he might feel—Pei knows that.

Trying to force it out would only bring back the panic attack—and he wouldn’t get an answer.

Still, he makes one more attempt.

“If you tell me, I’ll take care of it.”

But he can’t.

Not just because of who it is.

Not only because the mere act of knowing would get the General killed.

There are just some things you can’t fix.

(It hurts.)

The Water Master is starting to wonder if he’s one of them.

(And that really, really hurts.)

Pei doesn’t leave.

It’s the first time Shi Wudu has had someone in his bed like this—just to be held.

It’s fees safe.

And as sleep starts to tug him in, his eyes drift towards the window, watching the fireworks.

Wondering if he could be saved—and wondering if he wants to be.

In the city below, someone else is watching the same lights.

Eyes deep and dark, like frozen eyes beneath the sea.

Remembering a time when he was a child, sitting on a city roof.

Back then, it felt like looking down on the entire world.

‘Gege, these are the best seats ever!’

Back when He Sheng thought he could do anything.

Back when he thought that he was good at fixing things.

She's a few feet away from him, leaning against the railing, looking up at the lanterns, the fireworks, and the stars.

So much beauty, but her gaze is dim.

And he doesn't understand it.

Staring at chestnut curls. The vulnerable hunch of her shoulders. Freckles faintly spattered across the back of her neck.

He doesn't know how he could feel like this, when she's the reason he lost everything.

So, he tells himself that he doesn't.

He reminds himself of the day his heart died.

Feeling it fracture and break and wither away.

He reminds himself that He Sheng is long gone. A weak child with nothing left to protect.

Surrounded by the broken things he couldn't fix.

Still, when she looks back over her shoulder, her curls stirring in the wind, his lips can't help but curve up slightly.

"...You're usually the life of the party," he comments.

Shi Qingxuan looks away with a shrug.

"You and gege both act like that's all I am," she mutters.

"...Nah," Ming Yi disagrees, his tone always marked with carefully tailored disinterest. "I just thought you had something to celebrate."

She frowns, rubbing the cold out of her arms.

"You were in the top ten," her friend points out, reminding her of how excited she was before.

"..." her eyes narrow slightly, determined. "I'll do better next year," She mutters.

After all, people aren't going to take her seriously if she doesn't start working harder. And her brother...

...Maybe he wouldn't be so worried about his calamity, if he knew she could take care of herself.

Ming Yi is quiet as he watches her, his gaze far away--unreadable.

"...Who gives a damn about next year," he mutters, reaching out.

"You were eighth this year."

Shi Qingxuan stares at his hand for a moment, glancing up at him with a surprised smile, her eyes lighting up for the first time since the lanterns were counted.

"...Ming-xiong," she whispers, bouncing with excitement, "...are you actually offering to dance with me?"

He doesn't smile back--but there's the tiniest bit of warmth in his eyes, and it makes her own smile even wider.

"Don't push your luck."

"Okay, okay!" She agrees quickly, snatching his hand, "Not take backs!"

"How old are you, five?"

"And a HALF!" She laughs.

"Hey, Ming-Xiong--you're pretty good at this. Just who else have you been dancing with?"

"Lots of people."

"Hah?!" She protests, only to dissolve into laughter when he spins her around, "Then why did it take you so long to ask me?!"

"You make it hard to get a word in."

"I do not!" She cries. "Besides, what else are mouths good for, besides talking? I--!"

Luckily, they're alone--because then, Ming Yi shows her exactly what else mouths are good for, sparks of light showering in the skies overhead.

Refusing to think about next year.

Who knows what next year will look like.

This year--this year is all he needs to think about.

And this year, for the first time in many years, the Crown Prince fo Xianle hasn't found the Mid-Autumn festival to be a depressing affair.

Not entirely.

There were moments of pain, remorse, and sadness.

But…it was also beautiful.

Enough so that, in spite of the encounter with Mu Qing and Feng Xin, he still smiles during the walk back to Puqi Shrine, reaching down to fiddle with the chain around his neck.

Of all of the belongings Xie Lian has had in his life, this has been with him the longest—longer than Ruoye, even, even if the ashes were in a different form back then.

And after tonight, he can’t help but wonder…

The prince stops, coming to a halt on the steps.

“…Ren Song?” He calls out cautiously, hearing some rattling and footsteps in the distance before he gets an answer.

“Welcome back, your highness! Did you enjoy the festival?”

“Yes,” He replies, reaching over to touch one of the posts supporting the porch in front of the shrine

“What did you two get up to?”

“Oh…” Ren Song shrugs, leaning against the doorframe, twiddling his thumbs. “Nothing much. Just chatting, and all that…”

Guzi is already sleeping peacefully, Qi Qi tucked around his head like a fluffy red pillow.

“Did you get the lanterns?”

“…I thought that much would have been obvious,” Xie Lian mumbles, glancing up at the lights floating in the sky overhead.

“…” The demon grins, “Oh, I guess so! You know, it’s hard to tell, what with so many of them going up in the same night, all that…”

“…Shuo?”

“Yes?”

“The shrine didn’t have steps when I left.”

Not on the front part of the building, anyway—there are steps leading out back that San Lang built during his first week here, but the front is a simple step off, a foot and a half off the ground.

“Oh…I made them!”

The teenager bobs his head, his tone ever eager, ever helpful.

“I thought they’d be better then the step off, y’know? So Guzi won’t trip!”

“That was kind of you,” Xie Lian murmurs, all while the demon beams in response. “…I don’t remember the porch being this stable, either.”

“Ah, well…” Shuo shrugs, waving it off with a sheepish snort, “I know, I know, it’s generous of me, but what can I say? I’m a thoughtful person.”

“Yes…” Xie Lian agrees, lifting his hand from the post to press it against the shrine wall. “There’s just one other thing.”

“Hmm?”

“The shrine was made from balsa wood,” the god murmurs, “this is cedar.”

There’s a long, awkward silence—and the ghost finally grumbles—

“How the hell were you able to tell?!”

“Different smell,” Xie Lian shrugs, lifting his palm off of the wall. “And texture.”

“…Okay, well, first of all, balsa wood is terrible,” Shuo grumbles, crossing his arms. “It’s not structurally stable at all. And it doesn’t even grow around here! What kind of bad luck—!”

“Shuo…”

“And cedar, y’know, that’s rot resistant, it’s sturdy—!”

“What happened?”

“Second of all,” Shuo holds up his hands pointedly, as if the god could even see see the gesture to begin with, “I’m not the trouble maker in this situation, got it? I’m the problem solver! You even have a second story now! That’s an improvement!”

“Oh.” Xie Lian blinks.

“Really? Thank you.”

That actually is a rather helpful improvement. What with all of the extra guests he’s had recently, it’s been somewhat cramped.

“You’re welcome, your highness. It’s like I said, I’m a generous—”

“What happened?”

“Okay, okay, thirdly,” Shuo fiddles with the end of his ponytail nervously, “If you think about it, this is kinda your fault—no offense—”

Xie Lian’s eyebrows shoot up, and he explains.

“I mean, I knew letting the prince stay was a bad idea, but you insisted…”

“What—?”

“And you know, if you think about it,” Shuo tilts his head to the side, twisting his hair around his fingers a little faster, “You blew up my house first. And I didn’t complain! I just rebuilt my house!”

“…The shrine was blown up?”

“No! Don’t be dramatic!”

“And is paradise manor your home too?” Xie Lian questions, now feeling even more guilty about that than he did before. “San Lang wasn’t clear on the subject…”

“Uh,” Shuo wrinkles his nose (as he always does, when he’s in intense thought), “yes, but also no.”

Xie Lian stares at him, waiting, and the forest demon sighs.

“Well, obviously I’m high up enough that I have my own lair and all of that, but Yi—” He stops, frowning. “…The Waning Moon Officer isn’t there.”

“Is that a big problem?”

“Yeah,” Shuo stares, like it’s obvious.

“He makes my snacks.”

Xie Lian doesn’t know whether to laugh, or cry.

“For the purposes of this argument, it’s my house.”

The prince blinks. “Are we arguing?”

“You’re practically interrogating me!” The ghost whines. “And I built you steps!”

“I’m just asking what happened…?”

“Okay, okay!” He cries, as though Xie Lian was shaking him by the front of his shirt and berating him.

(Rather than asking in a calm, very gentle tone.)

“So, you know, I’m feeding Guzi and the creepy fuck—”

“—Lang Ying—?”

“Yeah, whatever, I’m feeding them dinner, and Qi Rong picks that moment to be, y’know, himself.”

Xie Lian winces, not needing him to elaborate on why his cousin being ‘himself’ is a bad thing.

“He insists that he’s not gonna eat his food unless Lang Qianqiu feeds him.”

Oh—

Oh dear.

“And y’know,” Shuo makes a face, throwing his hands up, “I called him a pervert, thinking it would discourage him—”

Xie Lian sighs, immediately seeing how it went downhill.

The more outrageous a situation, the more excited Qi Rong tends to get.

“Well then, Lang Qianqiu did feed him, but kind of aggressively, y’know? And Qi Rong starts moaning every time he shoves the food in his mouth.”

Xie Lian’s face falls in his hands, and Shuo shrugs, “And y’know what? I laughed. The look on his face was hilarious! It was!”

Xie Lian has no idea what Lang Qianqiu actually looks like, so he can only imagine his expression.

“Then he’s yelling at ME, like ‘How can you laugh?! He murdered your brother!’”

(When Shuo impersonates him, he drops his voice, using an intentionally idiotic tone.)

“And then I was offended, because hey, just because Qi Rong and I have a DYNAMIC, that doesn’t mean I don’t HATE him! But fuck, he has a sense of humor, okay?! He’s FUNNY sometimes!”

Xie Lian is reluctant to admit that, but Shuo isn’t wrong.

“So, I kinda lost my temper—which isn’t my fault, he pushed me to it—and I said he was just mad because Qi Rong has gotten laid, and he hasn’t,” Shuo shrugs, his eyes wide. “I wasn’t expecting to be RIGHT, okay?! Then HE got angerier—”

Xie Lian pinches the bridge of his nose.

The idea of his cousin being sexually active with anyone at any point isn’t an image he ever needed, and now he has to live with that knowledge.

“Then—did you know he has a tiger?!”

“Yeah,” Xie Lian mutters, not looking up. “He has a tiger.”

“Did you know they were stupid matching hats?”

That draws a surprised snort from the prince, and Shuo continues.

“Anyways, I didn’t know—because how was I supposed to know?!—but Dian Dian HATES tigers, apparently.”

Now, Xie Lian can see where this is going.

“So, they start fighting, and I was worried about Dian Dian, so I started to break it up, then Lang Qianqiu thinks I’m going after his tiger, so he tackles ME, and—well—like I said, balsa is shitty wood, so…”

So, most of the shrine was knocked down.

“But…I fixed it!”

Shuo points out. “I made it better, actually, if you think about it. I figured you and the kids could sleep down here, I could be in your newly installed attic—”

“And what about Lang Qianqiu?”

“Oh,” the demon waves that off. “I made a dog house out back, it should suit him.”

No, no—Qi Rong can stay there. Lang Qianqiu will just have to share with Shuo, if that’s how it’s going to be, but…

“…Where are they now?”

“Ah, well…” Shuo sighs. “While we were fighting, Qi Rong ran off—so Lang Qianqiu went after him while I rebuilt the shrine.”

Xie Lian’s expression pinches with concern, and Shuo is quick to reassure him. “He’s got him dianxia, don’t worry—they’ll be back relatively soon.”

“…How can you be sure?”

Shuo grimaces, crossing his arms. “I had to give him my private communication array password. Gross…”

The prince lets out a quiet sigh of relief.

Good, then—he doesn’t have to waste his time going off and finding Qi Rong himself.

“…You’re not gonna tell him, are you?” Shuo asks in a small voice, and Xie Lian pauses, confused.

“What, you mean San Lang?”

He nods.

Xie Lian rubs his chin, glancing around the room. “There’s no harm done, so I don’t see a reason to…”

Shuo let’s out a quiet breath of relief, and the prince raises an eyebrow. “But you did insist that he’s not in charge of you, so I’m not sure why you’re worried.”

“Okay, okay, look!” Shuo holds up a finger, “He’s the ghost king! Everyone listens to him! I’m just not like, an employee or a kid or something!”

“Do you take commands from black water too, then?”

“Huh?!” He gawks. “Hell no!”

Xie Lian crosses his arms, and Shuo falters.

“But…that’s completely different!”

“It is?”

“Blackwater doesn’t take bring a supreme seriously,” the demon explains, his arms crossed. “He and Hua Chengzhu are on decent terms, but he disappears for years at a time, and he only cares about…”

He stops himself, frowning.

“Only cares about…?”

“…Himself,” Shuo concludes. “The point is—he doesn’t care enough to try to boss anyone around anyway.”

It’s interesting, because Xie Lian never would have guessed, based on Hua Cheng’s carefree demeanor, that he would take being a supreme so seriously.

“…Well,” the prince murmurs, placing his hand against the shrine wall once more, “I won’t tell him.”

Then, after a pause—

“…And thank you for the second floor.”

“You’re welcome! It’s like I said—I’m a thoughtful person!”

Yes, very.

(Even if the new addition is entirely for Shuo’s use, but Xie Lian opts not to focus on that.)

It’s not long before the demon retreats to the newly built attic, leaving the prince standing on the porch.

Watching the lights, still.

His fingers drift back down to the chain around his neck, and he finds himself contemplating—just as he was before.

He’s met so many people over the last eight centuries. Some good, some bad. In all of that time, few of them have stood out.

Jiang Chi. Lang Qianqiu. Banyue. Xiong Li. Lan An.

And now, Hua Cheng and Shi Qingxuan.

The last two being unique in the sense that—Xie Lian doesn’t get close to people that quickly. It isn’t easy for him to form attachments…not anymore.

And yet—Shi Qingxuan has already become a dear friend in so short a time. And Hua Cheng…

…Is also a friend, but not in a way that Xie Lian is accustomed to, or even has a word for.

And when he does form new attachments, he can’t help but wonder…

What Hong’er would think.

Even after all this time, Xie Lian always finds himself imagining what it would be like, if he was still here.

Because in the prince’s mind, he should be.

He would have liked Shi Qingxuan, Xie Lian is sure of that much. The Wind Master is considerate, kind—and very supportive.

He can’t say the same thing about Hua Cheng.

Hong’er wouldn’t have liked him at all, and the thought of that makes Xie Lian smile.

After all—the boy was always respectful and deferential to him—but he loathed any other form of authority.

He would have found Hua Cheng’s…assertive personality to be abrasive.

Even more so than that—Hong’er would practically bite anyone that tried to lay a finger on him—even casually.

Xie Lian can still remember an occasion when a man from the village was slightly too familiar, attempting to take advantage of the god’s blindness to touch his face—

Hong’er didn’t hesitate before breaking his nose.

And if he had seen Hua Cheng…well…healing Xie Lian’s arm…

He would have certainly tried to rip his head off, ghost king or not.

The thought makes Xie Lian smile, lifting the ring up to his lips as he leans against the doorframe.

“…You always took such good care of me,” he whispers, squeezing his eyes shut.

Xie Lian just wishes he could have given him the same.

And it’s hard, remembering that, standing here.

The shrine has changed so much over time—but the foundations are the same.

The path before him is the one they walked together.

“I know you think I’m too trusting,” the prince whispers, stroking his fingers over the diamonds and rubies in the ring’s face.

“…But I like him,” he holds on tighter, his shoulders hunching slightly inward.

He doesn’t know why he feels guilty, admitting that.

He’s had friends before. Plenty that Hong’er probably wouldn’t have approved of.

But for some reason, this feels different.

“Give him a chance?” He mumbles, knowing he won’t get an answer.

He never does. Not from the one person he’s always wanted to talk to.

But when he looks to the sky overhead—

The lights are still there. Beaming down at him, a makeshift blanket of stars, drifting through the night.

And Xie Lian can’t help but smile, pressing Hong’er close to his heart.

“…Thank you,” he whispers, knowing that no one can hear.

Not knowing, of course, that someone can.

Miles away, leaning against a crimson column, a silver butterfly standing gracefully on his knuckles, his lips turned up into a soft smile as he looks up at the very same lights overhead.

Lanterns, drifting along the path to heaven.

He doesn’t need thanks.

That has never, not since he was a child, been the reason that Hua Cheng has prayed.

He prays for the same reason his mother did.

Because someone gave him a reason to.

Silver wings flap delicately in the night, warm against his palm.

‘It’s always for you.’

That’s what he wishes he could say.

‘All of it—it’s always for you.’

But Xie Lian—

Hua Cheng isn’t the one he wants to hear that from.

His fingers curl inward, and the butterfly drifts away.

Soon.

He had to find a reason to return to his side soon.

There’s trouble brewing overhead.

The heavens are stirring with unease—and when things begin to spill over, he needs—

He needs Xie Lian to trust him, the way he did before.

Things aren’t the same now, as they were back then.

Hua Cheng isn’t a child, or a mere savage ghost.

He won’t be helpless, in the conflict that lies ahead.

Regardless of what the cost might be—he’ll be able to protect his god.

The question, in the end, is whether or not Xie Lian will allow him to.

Some people struggle with allowing themselves to be protected. Or comforted.

Especially when they need it.

And when someone is upset, and alone—they often fall into old habits.

For Xie Lian, that used to mean practicing his calligraphy. These days, he takes to his loom.

For Feng Xin, it was beating practice dummies on the training ring to a pulp.

In close to a thousand years, he hasn’t changed.

And neither has Mu Qing. Not really.

When he’s scared, he’ll hide somewhere small and closed off, like he’s a child.

But when he’s upset…

Really upset, so distraught that he’s almost sick with himself—

Mu Qing cleans.

That’s what he’s doing now.

His deputies have long since been ordered away—and the floor, he’s been on his hands and knees, scrubbing it for hours, but—

But it doesn’t feel clean.

Even though he can see his reflection in the tiles beneath his hands, it’s always warped.

Like if he just scrubs harder, it’ll go away. He’ll feel better. It’ll—

It’ll get better, at some point.

It has to.

There’s another knock at his door, and he glares, shoulders hunched.

“Go away, Feng Xin!”

His voice is thick and raw from crying for several hours on end—and—

That idiot is fucking persistent, Mu Qing will give him that. Pounding at the door for god knows how long, threatening to kick it down until Mu Qing re-enforced it with magic.

Of course, that was when the moron threatened to go get his bow and shoot the thing open. It’s been quiet since then, and Mu Qing honestly thought he’d been caught up in other business, until—

Until he hears the door swing open.

“…” He slams the rag down on the floor, wiping at his nose irritably with the back of his hands as he whips around, his lips pulled back into a snarl.

“I said to GO THE FUCK AWAY!” He screams, his voice breaking. “WHY WON’T YOU JUST—!”

Mu Qing freezes, his face growing pale.

“Your…your m-majesty,” he mutters, instinctively bowing his head low, then realizing how pitiful he must look—so, he scrambles to his feet, but still…

He can’t meet the emperor’s eyes.

“I—I thought you were—”

“Nan Yang?” The emperor questions softly.

“…” Mu Qing nods, still wiping at his eyes, his posture radiating shame.

“I thought so.” Jun Wu sighs, glancing back over his shoulder. “I saw your argument, and…decided it would be best if I ordered him to help take the documentation of the festival to the archives.”

Such a thing would normally be left to Ling Wen—but he’s still off…enjoying the celebration. In his preferred form of company.

Mu Qing lets out a soft exhale of relief, swallowing hard. “…Thank you, your majesty.”

“It was an emotional evening, I’m sure.” Jun Wu murmurs.

The martial god’s lips tremble—and now, he seems to remember that he still has the cleaning rag clutched in his hands, biting back a sniffle as he tosses it aside.

“Not for me,” he croaks hoarsely. “I’m fine.”

It’s a pitiful attempt, but maybe they can both just pretend…

“…Of course you aren’t,” the words make Mu Qing wince, but…

Jun Wu’s tone is…gentle.

“Seeing something like that would upset anyone, and…”

Silver eyes watch him closely.

“…I know how deeply you care about Xianle.”

Mu Qing swallows thickly, his throat tight.

“I…”

“…I had my own guilt, you know. Watching that.” Jun Wu shakes his head, his gaze far away.

Mu Qing’s tears slow as he finally looks up, his eyes wide—swollen and red.

“You…did?”

“How could I not?” The emperor smiles—but it’s pained.

“I was the one who banished him.”

Of course, Xie Lian hadn’t given Jun Wu much of a choice—everyone knows that, and no one blames him.

Mu Qing, however…

He just made a mistake.

A horrible fucking mistake. One he had no excuse for.

“…I don’t know why he didn’t pray for help,” the emperor admits quietly.

“I don’t know how I couldn’t have known.”

“…” Mu Qing wraps his arms around himself, leaning back against the wall. “That’s not your fault,” he mutters. “Xie Lian doesn’t like showing weakness.”

(And neither does he.)

“…And it isn’t your fault, either.”

Mu Qing flinches away from the words of comfort, his eyes welling up with tears. “You don’t…”

His voice wobbles, and Jun Wu’s gaze softens. “You were so young, Xuan Zhen…”

He was. The youngest of the three of them—but everyone always forgot that.

“When I was that age, I made far worse mistakes than being cruel to a friend.”

“…”

He knows, then.

Xie Lian must have told him, at one point or another.

And Mu Qing knows, given what he did—he has no right to secrecy.

Still, it hurts.

“…You did?” Mu Qing whispers.

“…” Jun Wu tilts his head, glancing around the inside of Mu Qing’s palace.

He’s never visited before. Not personally.

“I was under…an incredible amount of pressure, when I was young,” Jun Wu explains. “Everyone relied on me, but, at the same time…”

His next words…strike an unexpected chord with Mu Qing.

“…No one ever put me first.”

The martial god has always been pretty good at sniffing out a liar.

“Not even the ones who were supposed to protect me.”

It…

“…It was lonely.”

It doesn’t feel like the emperor is lying.

“So many people admired me, but…the minute I failed, even in the smallest way…”

/Crack!/

Jun Wu snaps his fingers.

“That admiration turned to disappointment and anger. No matter how human the failure was—”

Mu Qing’s stomach sinks.

“Because I wasn’t allowed to fail.”

It’s hard hearing Jun Wu explain it. Because on some level—

When someone is born to wealth and privilege, it’s easy to resent them for all of the things they have.

It’s even easier to resent them for failing, or feeling sadness.

Because where do they get the right?

“And I always thought—if I could fix it, if I could impress them again—save them, again—they would believe in me the way they did before.”

Two tears slip down Mu Qing’s cheeks, and he wipes at them irritably.

“…Make them love me again, the way they did before.”

The ache in his voice is undeniable, and Mu Qing—he shakes his head.

“That doesn’t…sound like a mistake, your majesty.”

Jun Wu smiles faintly.

“…I did make one though,” he looks down the halls of Mu Qing’s palace, examining the paintings on the walls.

“I made a horrible mistake.”

He’s facing away from Mu Qing now, his hands folded inside his robes.

“And it did help the greater good, in the short run, but…”

His expression remains hidden.

“It destroyed so many of the people I loved. Even if that was never what I intended.”

…And, of course, Mu Qing is more than familiar with that feeling.

So often, he’s ended up hurting the people he loves, even if he never meant to.

He was only angry, hurt, and scared.

“…And I couldn’t admit it was my fault, either,” the emperor mutters.

“Because if I did, then that would mean I failed, and…”

…And they wouldn’t love him anymore.

It’s a cycle that’s so easy to get trapped in. So impossible to escape.

“And I just blamed everyone else,” Jun Wu lets out a heavy sigh, refusing to look at his own reflection.

“I was in a hole. And I dug deeper, and deeper, and deeper. Until I didn’t know how to get out.”

The only thing to do then, was lie.

Because if you’ve done something you can’t be forgiven for, even if your intentions in the beginning were good—

You’ll do anything to hide it.

“Eventually…I was alone.”

There’s such misery in his voice…such vulnerability, that Mu Qing can’t help but feel slightly…

Uneasy.

“…And why are you telling me all of this?” He questions, surprised.

Because he certainly hasn’t told anyone else.

“…I suppose it’s because I see potential in you, Mu Qing,” the emperor admits—and the martial god stiffens.

There are only two people left who call him that.

Xie Lian and Feng Xin.

It’s been so long since anyone else called him his birth name—he’s startled by it.

“After all, you’ve done rather well for yourself,” Jun Wu turns his head, looking him over. “Most Martial Gods are unambitious, relying on only physical prowess, but…”

He eyes silver locks of hair closely.

It’s too bad the change isn’t permanent. It suits him.

“…You’re well rounded, compared to them.”

He undoubtedly has the potential to rise higher. The only thing that ever seems to get in his way are his emotions.

Mu Qing sniffs again, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes for a moment, trying to sooth the burning.

“…they’ve never stopped seeing me as a servant,” he mutters.

And he shouldn’t be surprised by that.

After all—the Heavens is filled with royalty. War heroes. Great scholars. Wealthy merchants…compared to them, he’s…

“It doesn’t matter where you start out.”

Mu Qing glances up, surprised.

That Jun Wu—presumably born of royal blood himself, and now higher above anyone else—would say that.

“My wife was born a commoner, you know.”

“…I never knew you were married at all,” Mu Qing admits.

It’s never been mentioned before. Not once.

Jun Wu smiles faintly, his gaze unreadable.

“She knew me better than anyone.” His voice is undeniably fond. “…And she would have put any god in the Heavens to shame. And…I suppose that’s another thing we have in common.”

Mu Qing stares back at him, confused.

And Jun Wu’s explanation—it makes him go still, his eyes widening as his stomach plummets.

Because it was hard enough, being alone in that knowledge.

It feels painful—exposed, even, to have someone else drag the truth to light;

“She was in love with my best friend, too.”

The next morning, Xie Lian awakes to a mild crisis:

There’s no food left in Puqi shrine.

“Don’t look at me,” Ren Song grumbles, his arms crossed as he leans back in his chair. “I’m the only one here that doesn’t actually NEED to eat.”

From where he’s dangling from one of the rafters, slowly revolving from Ruoye’s grip, Qi Rong rolls his eyes, flexing his bound hands. “It was OBVIOUSLY me…”

Ren Song glances up, flicking a small pebble at his head.

“As the cannibal in the room, I’d keep quiet if I were you.”

“Oi! You eat people TOO you smug fucking BR—!”

Shuo manages to flick the next pebble directly into his mouth, making him choke and flail overhead.

“I eat other ghosts. Not live humans. Big difference.”

Xie Lian finds both options disturbing, but as someone…alive…he supposes he can’t really reflect on whether or not it’s ‘normal’ for a ghost to do that.

He’ll have to ask Hua Cheng about it, the next time he sees him.

Hopefully soon.

Xie Lian had been hoping to pay a visit to Ghost City today, to thank him, but…

Well, given that he’s currently responsible for a living, human child that could theoretically starve, the food shortage will have to be sorted out first.

“I think we’re ignoring the obvious.”

Ren Song turns his head to stare pointedly in Lang Qianqiu’s direction, and the martial god huffs, immediately riled by the silent accusation.

“I only eat my fair share!” He cries.

“Which happens to be more than everyone else here!”

“Well, I’m bigger than the rest of you!”

“Dianxia is a grown man too, and he eats like HALF as much!” Shuo glares. And sure, Xie Lian is shorter with a slightly less bulky frame, but the difference shouldn’t be THAT much!

“Ah, well…” The prince smiles, feeling somewhat awkward. “I’ve always had a poor appetite…”

(Not to mention the fact that, over the last eight hundred years, he…didn’t do the best job feeding himself.)

It’s not nearly as bad as it used to be, however. There was a brief stint (a few decades or so) where he was nearly skeletal.

But, you know, these things happen.

By comparison, Xie Lian would say that he’s acceptably healthy.

“Maybe you should be saying he doesn’t eat ENOUGH instead of saying I eat TOO MUCH!” Lang Qianqiu grouses. “Besides, you’re dead! You don’t know what it’s like to NEED to eat!”

“HEY—!”

“Technically you don’t.”

Both of them stop, slowly looking over at Xie Lian, who shrugs. “Practically speaking, the only ones here who NEED food are Qi Rong and Guzi.”

“…” Lang Qianqiu stares, his brows furrowed.

“…Sure, there are gods who can sustain themselves on pure spiritual energy alone—but I’m not one of them.”

“Oh, me neither,” Xie Lian agrees with a nod. “But even without it, you can go without food indefinitely. Even if your body enters the starvation stages—you won’t die.”

“…Indefinitely?” Lang Qianqiu questions slowly, and Xie Lian stops, thinking about it.

“Well, I suppose I can’t say for sure—but a very long time, at least.”

After all—Xie Lian went over a hundred years without a single ounce of food or water. He would know.

Since then, it isn’t often that he feels actual hunger anymore, either. The same goes for thirst.

Usually, he only eats when he starts to feel physically weak—that’s the only way he can tell.

“Either way, assigning blame doesn’t help solve the problem at hand.”

Ren Song nods, his gaze still remaining on Lang Qianqiu. “Aren’t you rich, anyway? Just go buy some food!”

The martial god glares right back at him. “Coming from Crimson Rain’s kid? Your boots probably cost more than a small palace!”

“HEY! He is NOT my dad!”

“That doesn’t change the fact that you’re LOADED! Probably even more so than I am!”

Xie Lian sighs, pushing back from the table, turning around to pick up his hat, pulling it over his head.

“YOU go and buy food!”

Next come his boots, and his outer robes.

“Why SHOULD I?!”

Of course he tells Guzi to be good, patting him on the head—

And by the time Lang Qianqiu and Ren Song finish arguing…

…He’s already gone.

“…Where’d he go?”

Guzi glances up from where he’s been playing tag, chasing Qi Qi around the floor.

“Scrap-gege went to get food!”

“…”

“…”

Naturally, Xie Lian couldn’t bother the people of Puqi village. Most of them are poor farmers with little to spare, and they already help him enough, when and where they can.

The natural next step was to walk to the larger, wealthier town at the foot of the mountain.

Wherein Xie Lian manages to find an empty street corner, spreading an old, worn carpet beneath his feet before taking a seat, setting up a small, neatly written sign:

‘Clothing, tapestries, and other cloth wares for sale!’

With the addendum:

‘Tricks available upon request!’

Thankfully, if Xie Lian lays his wares out, he usually doesn’t need to be much of a salesman, people will approach him on their own.

Today is no different!

A finely dressed young woman stops in front of him, snapping her parasol shut as she bends over to take a look.

She smiles, reaching down to touch one of the robes delicately.

“Say, gege…” the young woman glances up at him, painted nails grasping the handle of her parasol delicately. “These are really nice.”

The god jumps, glancing in her direction with a friendly smile.

“Thank you, miss! Very reasonably priced, too!”

Her lips twitch at the mention of price, but before she can say more, another voice pipes up.

“Say, I don’t think I’ve seen you here before!” This young lady is shorter, curly haired, and dressed in far more vibrant colors.

“What’s your name, mister?”

“H—” Xie Lian starts, then stops himself.

(Not seeing the way the original young lady’s lips curve into a pointed frown.)

“The name is Xie,” he smiles again. “Anything catching your eye?”

“Hmmm…” she rubs her chin, leaning close.

“This pink dress is very nice, actually…”

“I was just thinking the same thing!” A third girl speaks up, this one taller, a slightly nasal tint to her voice. “I’ll take it!”

The shorter young lady straightens up with a glare. “Well if it isn’t Cui Ya!”

The newcomer, clearly some sort of rival, crosses her arms. “Ma Jian,” she sniffs. “I’m sorry I didn’t notice you before, I don’t usually look at the ground when I walk.”

Oh.

Xie Lian blinks, surprised.

They really don’t like one another, do they?

“What are you doing here, anyway?”

Ma Jian sniffs, balling her hands up into fists. “If you MUST know, I’m having tea with Mr. Mo on Sunday, so I thought I’d get a new dress!”

Cui Ya raises an eyebrow, staring down at her imperiously.

“Is that so?”

The more she speaks, the more Ma Jian’s face reddens with fury. “Well, I happen to be going riding with Mr. Mo on Saturday…”

Xie Lian winces, and Cui Ya smirks.

“I’d invite you to come along, but your short little legs probably couldn’t reach the stirrups…”

Ma Jian’s nostrils flare, and Xie Lian can’t help but feel a little sorry for her.

“But if he’s not too exhausted the next day…I’m sure he’ll enjoy having tea with you.”

Is riding really that tiresome? Xie Lian never found it to be so.

“Well, good for Mr. Mo.” Ma Jian huffs, adjusting her sleeves delicately.

“It’s kind of him to take BOTH of his horses out for a ride.”

Xie Lian makes a choked sound, and Cui Ya squawks with indignation.

“Listen here, you little bitch—!”

In the middle of their arguing, Xie Lian can’t help but notice that the third young woman, the first to arrive—has disappeared.

And with her, a simple black brocade Xie Lian has set out for sale—two gold pieces left in it’s place.

The prince frowns.

That’s three—no, five times more than what he normally charges for a garment like that, and more than enough to buy food for the shrine for a week or two.

He lifts them up, trying to call out to her to correct the mistake, but…

She’s long gone.

In the background, Ma Jian and Cui Ya are still arguing.

“Look!” Ma Jian snaps, clapping her hands together. “Pretty dresses are for pretty young ladies! And YOU are a COW!”

Without thinking, Xie Lian comments—

“I thought you said she was a horse?”

“HEY!”

“She can be BOTH!”

Before any of them can say more, there’s a loud crash as the doors of a nearby mansion crash open.

“STUPID DOCTOR!” A middle ashes man’s voice rages. “GET OUT!”

“Mr. Mo!” Someone cries in protest. “There really isn’t anything he can do!”

…This is the “Mr. Mo” these two young women are fighting over?

He sounds too old for either one of them, if you ask Xie Lian.

“My wife was FINE yesterday! You SAID SO!”

…And he has a wife?

Goodness, that’s rather shameless.

“She was! She really was!”

“Then HOW DO YOU EXPLAIN THIS?!”

“Well…!” The doctor and his assistant stumble back down the steps. “There’s clearly some dark magic at work here! You’d be better off with a cultivator than a doctor!”

And suddenly, that’s Xie Lian’s cue.

“Ah!” He leaps to his feet, cutting off the two young women arguing in front of him. “I’m a cultivator, sir!”

The wealthy merchant stops shaking his fist in the doctor’s face, slowly turning to look at…

A simply dressed—clearly blind—weaver.

“…I thought you made clothes!” Ma Jian frowns, and Xie Lian waves her off, picking up his hat and the gold pieces as he straightens up.

“That was a side gig,” he explains casually. “I’m a cultivator by trade!”

A few of the locals stop to stare at the garments he’s rather carelessly abandoned on the street—some of which are the finest they’ve ever seen.

A…side gig?

“Whatever the issue is, I’m sure I can help!”

He smiles brightly, and his confidence is so clear that, well…

Even if Mr. Mo has his doubts, due to the blindness—it seems like the very best option that he has.

“…Very well, Mr…?”

“Xie,” Xie Lian exclaims again, crossing the road, following the sound of his voice with ease. “The name is Xie!”

“…Mr. Xie, it’s my wife!”

He’s ushered inside the house quickly, the courtyard gates slamming shut behind him as Mr. Mo explains. “She’s expecting a son, my first son! And when the doctors came to check her yesterday, she was fine, but today…” He trails off fretfully.

The moment Xie Lian is led into the lady of the house’s bedroom, he understands.

He can’t see her—the way her complexion has gone pale and sweaty, her expression drawn with pain. But he can hear her pained cries, and more importantly—

The dark aura. Coming directly from…

“EVERYBODY, QUIET!” Xie Lian cries out, holding his hands up.

The merchant is so startled, he nearly falls over, the doctor and his assistant cowering near the door.

“There’s something wrong with the mistress’s belly!”

Mr. Mo braces himself against a dresser, turning pale.

“Is she about to give birth?! It’s too soon!”

No, Xie Lian very much doubts the poor woman will be giving birth any time soon. Maybe never.

He reaches onto his back, where he’s kept Fangxin sheathed up until now—and when he pulls out the sword, gleaming like black jade, the merchant grows even more gaunt.

“Hey! What are you doing with that thing—?!”

“Everyone, stay back!”

After all—Fangxin is no ordinary blade, it’s a spiritual device.

It hovers in the air the moment Xie Lian brings it out, trembling, before finally moving towards the pregnant woman in her bed—drawing out her husband’s panic.

“WHAT—?”

“Don’t interfere!” Xie Lian cries.

Fangxin won’t harm the mother, that much is certain.

The prince holds Mr. Mo back firmly as the blade hovers over her stomach—and after a tense moment, broken only by the father’s protests, Mrs. Mo begins to hunch over, hacking and coughing.

“Everyone, STAY BACK!”

“How cAN YOU SAY THAT WHEN MY WIFE IS ABOUT TO BE—?!” The merchant falls silent, trembling with fright when black smoke begins to pour out of Mrs. Mo’s mouth, filling the air around her in a cloud, swirling menacingly.

Waiting for this moment, Fangxin finally attacks.

Plunging down towards the cloud, piercing through it—but only doing a minor level of damage before it slips out the open window, leaving Mrs. Mo to collapse against the sheets, breathing hard with relief.

Xie Lian lets go of her husband, hurrying forward to check on her.

After a moment of inspection, he hangs his head, his expression grim. “…it’s gone,” he mutters.

“GOOD!” Mr. Mo stumbles over, trembling with relief. “I don’t know what you did, but thank goodness you were here! How is my wife?! And my son?!”

“Your wife will recover, but…”

Xie Lian sighs, leaning back. “Your son is gone.”

Mrs. Mo is groaning, clearly not conscious or aware of what has happened—and Mr. Mo—

He just stares at the cultivator, his jaw hanging open with shock.

“W…What do you mean?! Did th—did that thing make her miscarry?!”

Xie Lian supposes the end result might be the same—but the process is actually radically different.

“No, that…” He turns his head, following the direction of evil aura with his eyes. “That cloud of black smoke…it devoured the unborn child.”

The merchant stares at his wife’s stomach, his expression grief stricken. “H…how could that be? My…my first son, and now, he’s…”

“…Well, to get to the bottom of it, I have to ask—and I hope you understand, sir, I mean no offense—”

“Of course, Daozhang! What is it?”

He seemed rather doubtful of Xie Lian initially, but now that the prince has proven some qualifications—he’s rather deferential.

“First—are there any other women in your life that might have been jealous of your wife’s pregnancy?”

“Well…” Mr. Mo hesitates.

Xie Lian already knows the answer—and he strongly disapproves—but he waits.

“I, ah…have several wives…and concubines…”

…On top of the women outside?!

“…and has your wife ever terminated a pregnancy?”

“Ah, well…” Mr. Mo scratches his beard.

“When you have so many women in one house…they get competitive, you know.”

He can’t see Xie Lian’s eyes—they’re covered by the hood of his robes—but the cultivator crosses his arms, unimpressed.

“…Well, the last time she was pregnant, she found out it was a girl, and…”

The answer is obvious, if not somewhat grim.

Mrs. Mo found out she was having a girl—and proceeded to terminate the pregnancy, rather than lose status compared to the other women in the house.

“Is it…possible that this was the vengeance of the unborn girl?”

“…Maybe…” Xie Lian admits with a frown. “It’s difficult to tell. But in this case, you were clearly dealing with a fetus spirit. Given that your wife is no longer present, it has no reason to linger.”

As he’s saying this, he’s making his way to leave, but…

Mr. Mo stops him.

“…But if there was a pregnant woman on the house…the child be in danger?” He questions slowly, and…

Xie Lian fights the urge to press a palm to his forehead with exasperation.

“Is there?”

“Well…” the merchant swallows thickly, his forehead beading with stress.

“…One of my concubines is pregnant as well!”

Two pregnant women in one house?!

The merchant is repugnant, but…

It makes sense that a fetus spirit was drawn here.

“…Alright,” Xie Lian sighs. “I can help her, but you’re going to need to do exactly as I say.”

The merchant nods eagerly, his hands clasped in front of him in a pleasing gesture.

“Anything you say, Daozhang! If it’s at my disposal, you have it!”

“Have the mistress sleep in a different room tonight. Actually—it’s better to have her stay awake if she can.”

Xie Lian knows that’s no small task. Pregnancy often makes women rather tired—surprisingly early in the process, too.

Despite what one might think, he’s actually spent quite a bit of time in the presence of pregnant women over the last eight centuries.

He’s been told he has a comforting presence, and he can’t feel pain when someone squeezes the life out of his hands, so he’s often helped with deliveries in the towns he’s found himself passing through.

“It’s not a problem, daozhang!”

“And if someone calls out for her, calling her mother—she absolutely must not answer, or open her mouth at all. Understand?”

“Yes!” Mr. Mo bobs his head quickly in agreement. “Absolutely!”

“I’ll also need a dress—one loose enough to be worn by a man—and a lock of her hair.”

No matter how strange Xie Lian’s directions become, Mr. Mo agrees.

“Oh! And take this,” Xie Lian mutters, fumbling around in his sleeve. After a moment, he retrieves a protection charm, handing it over.

“…What is it?”

“A protection talisman,” The cultivator explains.

“When all of this is over—hold that up and say ‘please protect me, crown prince!’” Xie Lian concludes. “That way, all of this can be counted under my shrine.”

“…”

“Good,” He claps his hands, assuming that the merchant nodded in agreement. “Let’s get started!”

As it turns out, wearing women’s clothes is easier after the first time around. The dress the bring out for him is plenty big enough for what he has in mind—and even the makeup is easier this time around.

After all, Xie Lian paid close attention when Xiao Ying applied it back on Mount Yu Jun. He’s slow and careful, keeping in mind the feel on his skin, the placement of the product—and when he has one of the maids check his work, she even compliments him on the end result.

After that, he goes about working his hair into a more feminine style—braiding the sides, using the piece Hua Cheng gifted him to clasp it at the back of his head.

(Though Xie Lian can’t imagine this is how the Ghost King intended his gift to be used when he gave it to him.)

Finally, he’s left with the final task:

To make himself a convincing pregnant woman.

Of course, therein lies two obvious problems:

It wasn’t so difficult, pretending to simply be a small chested bride on Mount Yu Jun.

Pretending to be a flat chested pregnant woman, however…

That’s harder to do. It’s not that women like that don’t exist—they do—but not often.

Of course, now that Xie Lian thinks about it…

…It wouldn’t be such a terrible idea to use his female form, in a situation like this.

It’s like Shi Qingxuan said, when he was trying to convince Xie Lian to do it in the first place.

Xie Lian isn’t worshipped as a god, or a goddess these days. Regardless of his gender, his power stays the same. And the…Crown ‘Princess’ of Xianle, she…

…Isn’t flat chested.

So, in this case…

Xie Lian scrunches his nose, concentrating, trying to grasp whatever spiritual power he has remaining from his mission in Ghost City…

…And when he reaches up to grasp at his chest, it’s still flat.

“…Oh,” he mutters, surprised to feel…disappointed.

He must not have had enough left over, then.

It’s not as if he had his heart set on it—but he hardly got to be in that form for very long at all last time—and it would have been a nice chance to sate any remaining curiosity.

Ah, well.

He’ll just have to be an expectant mother with a smaller chest, and hope the fetus spirit doesn’t notice—there’s not really much else he can do on short notice.

(Besides ringing up Nan Feng or Fu Yao to ask them to lend spiritual power—but he’d be too embarrassed to explain.)

And the second issue at hand, of course, is his belly.

In that case, it doesn’t matter what gender he’s in—he’ll have to rectify it.

He feels around the mistress’s bedroom, eventually finding a small, round pillow, pushing it up under his skirt.

It takes a minute of shimmying and adjusting to get it in place, but once it’s wedged under the bust area, situated over his ribs…

Xie Lian rubs his hands over it, testing.

It’s not exactly the same shape as a pregnant woman’s stomach—but it’s certainly close enough.

Of course, he only problem is that Xie Lian has to keep one hand over the pillow to keep it in place—which he does, carefully waddling sideways as he crawls into the mistress’s bed, pulling the blankets up over him.

It’s early in the night to be going to sleep—and maybe it’s a little optimistic to assume that the fetus spirit would strike again so soon—but Xie Lian would prefer to finish this quickly.

“…” The god sighs, laying on his back, his hands on his stomach.

…He isn’t sleepy.

Xie Lian has a lot of skills. Forcing himself to sleep when he isn’t actually tired isn’t one of them.

Particularly because the more he thinks about how he needs to sleep, the more anxious he becomes, and then he’s even more awake, and—

You get the picture.

And normally, when this happens, Xie Lian has one strategy:

“…Ruoye,” he starts—then realizes that he left his spiritual device guarding the actual pregnant woman downstairs—and he sighs.

(Xie Lian usually talks himself to sleep.)

He could try talking to Fangxin—but he feels weird about that.

Xie Lian carried the blade for five centuries, before loosing it with Lang Qianqiu, but…he never developed much of a bond with it.

It’s hard to forget where it came from.

Instead, he pulls at the chain around his neck, twisting the ring between his fingers thoughtfully.

“Hong’er,” he starts again, feeling a little silly.

He talks to him every single day, but the circumstances this time are a little strange.

“…You know, we never talked about it,” he muses, stretching his legs out, sinking down into the mattress.

It’s far more plush than what he’s used to, though not as comfortable in the bed in Paradise Manor. Not Hua Cheng’s bed, obviously. The one in the guest room.

Xie Lian didn’t even get around to sleeping in it actually, which feels like a shame.

…Anyway.

“We never talked about it, and I…don’t really know why we would have, actually—but I…always wanted to be a parent, when I was young.” The prince explains quietly.

When he was little—not even ten years old, he would strong arm Feng Xin into playing pretend with him. And of course, being so young, with little exposure to anything but what they had been raised with, they couldn’t conceive a parenting set other than a mother and a father.

Feng Xin would have done whatever Xie Lian told him to do—but watching him attempting to act motherly was a little too out of character, even for a seven year old’s suspension of disbelief—so, Xie Lian always took that up for himself.

The Queen was confused, watching Xie Lian carrying around one of their puppies, swaddled in a blanket, and Feng Xin marching behind him—grumbling about the economy, and being up past his bedtime.

(In Feng Xin’s mind, that was the epitome of fatherhood.)

When she eventually found out what they were doing, she thought it was hilarious. The king, however, found Xie Lian’s willingness and seeming ease with pretending to be a mother… ‘inappropriate.’

Which resulted in a very awkward, confusing discussion with his father.

With the king waxing on and on about how, one day, Xie Lian was going to have a wife. That she would be the mother of his children. And that Xie Lian would be a husband, and father.

These were the things that were expected of the prince, someday.

But that was always the key word: someday.

Even if Xie Lian didn’t feel anything when he held a girl’s hand—he told himself that he would, someday.

Whenever he tried to imagine himself with a wife, her having his children—it felt like someone else’s future. Not his.

And as he got older…

It felt like there was something wrong with him.

Because he didn’t understand why, as he was entering puberty, Xie Lian didn’t want those things.

Xie Lian was /supposed/ to want those things.

But he didn’t.

And then, he started to feel…other things.

First, there was denial. Then, fear. A slow process of coming to terms with what had always been framed to him as an abnormality. A moral failing.

“…But when I got older, and I realized I was never going to love a woman in that way…” Xie Lian bites his lip.

“It didn’t feel right to pretend to love someone, just so I could have a family.”

Not just to the potential wife in that situation, but to the children too.

Children deserve to be raised by parents who love each other. Xie Lian was lucky—his own parents loved one another deeply

“So…I decided to be a cultivator,” Xie Lian explains. “And that seemed…like I was giving something up, but I was getting something else.”

Sure, he’d never marry or have children—but he’d be a god, instead.

When he was a child, it seemed like a fair trade.

Now, however…

He remembers how it felt, holding Banyue some nights. Singing her to sleep, keeping her safe.

When Xie Lian was young, he was too immature himself to be much good with children. He was well intentioned—but he had to learn how to make himself a safe place for them.

It’s one thing, to be able to protect someone. It’s another to be able to make them feel protected. Like they have a solid foundation underneath their feet.

It wasn’t until Banyue that he felt like he could actually give that to a child. That Xie Lian could actually…

And, well…remembering how he failed in that case, it doesn’t make Xie Lian feel like he could actually succeed at that now.

Actually—when he considers the weight of the shackles on him now—all three of them—

Xie Lian doesn’t even feel like he has the right to try.

His life has never been easy—that isn’t likely to change any time soon.

And he doesn’t have the right to drag a child into that.

“…I think you would have been good at it, though,” he mumbles, turning his cheek into the pillow.

Back then, Xie Lian never imagined it.

Hong’er died so young…in many ways, Xie Lian didn’t realize that the mortal had actually grown up.

Not until he was gone.

(Which was, in large part, why Xie Lian didn’t come to terms with the fact that his feelings had started to become romantic until after he died.)

And now, it feels especially unfair, because there were so many things that Hong’er never got the chance to do.

To fall in love for the first time. To get married. Having children of his own.

And he was so protective by instinct, so caring and gentle—

He would have been a natural. Xie Lian knows.

But when Xie Lian tries to picture the two of them, having children together—

He struggles with that part.

Not only because Xie Lian struggles with seeing himself as a parent, but…

That requires thinking of Hong’er in a context that feels somewhat disrespectful to the dead.

And when Xie Lian tries to picture any other possibility of someone he could envision himself having children with, the only thing that comes to his mind is…

“…” Suddenly, the god’s cheeks become rather hot, and he shoves all thoughts of that out of his mind.

“…You…” he repeats himself, swallowing down the butterflies in his stomach. “You would have been pretty good at it.”

The prince squeezes his eyes shut, biting his lip.

Instead of talking, he tries to opt for rubbing his hands over his faux-belly, humming a song his own mother used to sing to him when he was small.

That, paired with deep breaths, and the warmth of the ring against his chest, slowly makes his mind begin to drift…

He doesn’t actually realize he’s fallen asleep at first—not until he opens his eyes.

Because when he does—he can see.

Xie Lian can only see clearly like this under two conditions:

First, when he’s dreaming.

Second, when he’s under the effect of an illusionary spell.

This is more than likely the latter. First, because Xie Lian has no memory of this place. He never saw anything like it, back when he had his sight—and it’s completely different from the layout of the room he fell asleep in.

And second—

The shackle in his eye is hurting.

The pressure of the demonic energy in the room is enough to cause strain—but once his eyes adjust…

It’s very clearly the room of a young woman.

Flowers sitting in a vase by the vanity.

Fine dresses hung in the wardrobe.

And when Xie Lian glances towards the chest of drawers against the wall…it’s clear from the baby clothes inside that the woman who once lived here was expecting.

Which means…this is likely the room of the fetal spirit’s mother.

“…” Still clutching the pillow under his ribs, Xie Lian sits up, slipping out of bed as he walks through the room, examining it for any further clues.

(All the while, keeping an eye out for a black cloud of smoke.)

But he does catch sight of something…surprising.

A protection talisman.

Not only that—but one of Xie Lian’s protection talismans.

Unlike the one he gave Mr. Mo, just a few hours before…this one isn’t simple at all.

No, this one is expensive—intricately designed, just like they used to be, during…Xie Lian’s first ascension.

He lifts up the charm, startled, finding himself wondering…

…How old is this fetus spirit, anyway? Could it’s mother have actually been a woman from Xianle?

And if so—?

Then, there’s a sound—

Giggling.

And this laughter…

…it’s familiar.

Xie Lian is left standing there for a moment, wondering just where he could have heard it before, and then—it hits him.

‘New bride…New bride…’

It was that night. Back on Mount Yu Jun.

‘Smile not under the bridal veil…’

…This fetus spirit was the one singing back then?

Startling from his thoughts, a voice cries out—

“Mom!”

Xie Lian doesn’t answer, knowing that’s part of the trick.

“Mom, hug me!”

His mouth remains firmly shut, and in a way, he almost feels bad for the spirit.

After all—Xie Lian isn’t exactly actual prey.

If this spirit tried to crawl into his ‘womb,’ it would be in for a disappointing surprise.

“MOM!”

Still, Xie Lian doesn’t open his mouth—but he does notice something else—

The child’s voice…is coming from underneath his dress.

It would seem the fetus spirit—falling for Xie Lian’s little charade—snuck up under his robes. But instead of devouring his ‘unborn child,’ well…

It ended up with a mouth full of pillow stuffing, instead.

“BLEGH!”

‘Well, that’s what you get,’ Xie Lian thinks to himself.

The illusion is already starting to flicker—Xie Lian’s vision beginning to go black with it—but just before it does, he catches sight of one other detail—

The bed he had been laying in, before…

It’s absolutely soaked with blood.

He…

“MOM!” The child shrieks again.

Certain pieces of the mystery are certainly beginning to come together—but then, the illusion dissolves entirely, and Xie Lian is left in the darkened bedroom, eyeing the swirling cloud of black smoke as it flies out from beneath his dress.

But it doesn’t flee.

No—it thinks it’s been cheated out of a meal, and that, if it can get inside Xie Lian’s mouth, a baby will be waiting in his belly for it to devour.

(And, given the fact that Xie Lian’s closest brush with motherhood was a swaddled puppy—it’s going to be disappointed.)

But in the meantime—that gives Xie Lian the chance to wound and capture it.

It isn’t easy to pinpoint it. After all, catching sight of a black cloud when his vision is already dark isn’t easy. But he can catch faint glimpses of it, tracking it’s movements.

And when he steps forward—he feels something that catches him off guard. A sharp prick on his right foot.

It doesn’t hurt, of course—nothing ever does—but it goes pretty deep. Enough so to catch his attention.

A needle, left standing upright. Probably a trick to try and get Xie Lian to cry out, opening his mouth so the spirit can fly inside.

Well, the joke is on it—because Xie Lian hardly noticed it enough to even be aware of the needle’s existence.

Honestly, short of amputating the limb, it has little chance of getting the prince to cry out in pain.

In any case, Xie Lian takes that chance to strike out with Fangxin—and this time, he does manage to hit the cloud’s form a second time, earning a pained cry.

It begins to retreat again, like it did earlier in the day—but not towards the window, like Xie Lian expected, overlooking a small lake.

No—instead, it moves towards the doorway, where the other occupants of the house are waiting downstairs, many still awake.

Talking and laughing, their mouths wide open.

It’s a surprisingly manipulative trick, for a spirit of this nature.

(To be expected, given that it’s supposedly old enough for it’s mother to have been from Xianle.)

XIe Lian is forced to make a quick decision:

“…THE SPIRIT IS HERE!” He shouts as loudly as he can. “COVER YOUR MOUTHS!”

As soon as he’s said it, he shuts his own mouth tightly, but…

It’s too late.

He can already feel cold air running down his throat, into his chest—

Meaning he has to act fast.

If it was as simple as forcing himself to vomit, that would be easy.

See, Xie Lian has accidentally eaten quite a few poisonous things in his day. He’s turned the act of regurgitating into somewhat of a learned skill.

(As unpleasant as that skill might be.)

This is different.

This is something that absolutely doesn’t want to come up—meaning he’ll have to purge it out.

The god reaches into his sleeve, performing a few quick hand signs before pressing a protection talisman against his stomach—forcibly cleansing his body of evil.

Which ejects the spirit from him, sure—rather forcibly.

The result is Xie Lian gagging and coughing, his eyes pricking with tears as he stumbles away from the door, practically throwing the spirit up and out of him as he leans back against the window, thinking.

It’s going to keep on attacking him now—and at this rate, it’ll keep on using the humans downstairs as a means of manipulation, too…

Which means Xie Lian needs two things: to lure the spirit away from them—and to think.

The solution is impulsive, but rather straightforward.

To reach up behind him, pushing the window open, leaping up onto the ledge—and when Xie Lian hears the spirit whip around, he knows he has it’s attention.

Just in time for it to watch the prince leap out the window, crashing down into the lake below.

/SPLASH!/

Cold.

It’s the middle of autumn, after all—and as a result, the water is unpleasantly cool around him, jarring him the rest of the way out of his grogginess as the prince allows himself to drift down to the bottom of the lake, thinking.

He glances up, struggling to find the shape of the black cloud again—but Xie Lian knows it must be hovering over the lake, waiting for him to resurface.

In which case, when Xie Lian takes his first gasp of air, the spirit will jump right back into his stomach.

What a mess…

It’s rare, to encounter a fetal spirit with this much resentment. Is it because of it’s age, or simply the violent nature of it’s demise? And why was it on Mount Yu Jun? Would Qi Rong know anything about it?

In any case, that just means Xie Lian has to capture it, but…

Without spiritual power, that’s easier said than done. If Xie Lian could just catch a hold of it, he could…

Then—it occurs to him.

The easiest way to catch it would just be giving it exactly what it wants.

Let it jump in Xie Lian’s stomach.

He can just pierce it with fangxin immediately after.

It’s not a big deal for him to do that, anyway. Xie Lian knows he’ll heal from it—and he’s used to the feeling, as it is.

But, just as he comes to that conclusion…

/SPLASH!/

Something plunges into the lake with him.

…Did the fetus spirit actually jump into the water with him?! Xie Lian had assumed it would be too cautious to do that much, but before he can open his eyes to look for it’s aura—

A set of arms wrap around his waist…

Far stronger than that of a fetal spirit, and—

There’s something soft against Xie Lian’s lips.

Soft, but giving, and slightly cold.

And maybe it’s been a very long time, but—

The prince knows what someone else’s mouth feels like.

But…who…why…is it…?

Initially, all that comes to Xie Lian’s mind is a wave of confusion.

Then, as the initial shock starts to lose it’s charm—it’s followed by a rush of indignation.

Going from a simple—

‘Who is kissing me?’

To—

‘WHO the is kissing ME?!’

Flustered, he finds himself beginning to thrash, pushing against his captor’s shoulder, but the grip around his waist is like iron—even stronger than he is which—

Xie Lian’s never exactly been physically overpowered before.

Well actually, he has—but under far more unpleasant circumstances than this. And—honestly, it’s probably a fluke, he’s just surprised, he—!

The prince tries to twist his head, water flooding his mouth, making him choke as air bubbles pour out around him and—

There’s a hand gripping his jaw firmly—startling the god to the point where he wrenches his eyelids open, cool water stinging against his flesh—

When Xie Lian sees the aura in front of him, he stops struggling.

All around him, rather than endless darkness, is a sea of crimson.

It—

It’s Hua Cheng.

Hua Cheng is kissing him.

…/Ba-bump./

What is he doing here—?

Just as he starts to wonder, the ghost king’s thumb presses down firmly on his jaw, forcing the prince’s mouth open.

Xie Lian’s eyes practically bulge out of his head, his legs jerking, but—

When a cold stream of air is sent down his throat, soothing his burning throat and aching lungs, Xie Lian’s confusion clears—and all that’s left behind is absolute mortification.

O-Oh.

…Oh.

…It was just…

…Mouth to mouth…

And Xie Lian just…assumed…it was…

He’s caught between two parallel trains of thought:

It’s kind of hilarious that ghosts, who don’t need to breathe, can give mouth to mouth resuscitation.

And;

‘…Why did I assume he was kissing me? Why would he jump into a lake just to kiss me? …Why would he kiss me at all?!’

And this doesn’t necessarily compare to the other two kisses Xie Lian has had in his life, anyway.

The first was so horrific, violating, and traumatic—he refuses to count it. Refuses to even think about it.

The second was gentle, perfect, and laden with guilt.

And this…

This isn’t unpleasant. Not at all. And Xie Lian isn’t frightened. How could he be? It’s Hua Cheng, and—

And it isn’t a kiss! Why is he caught up on that—?

In the middle of his panicked, disorganized thinking, Hua Cheng begins to swim for the surface, pulling Xie Lian with him.

When they break into the open air, Xie Lian leans back, expecting Hua Cheng to let him go, but—

The hand on his jaw locks in, holding him firmly in place—and Xie Lian is somewhat embarrassed of the high pitched, shocked sound that comes out of his mouth.

While he’s left there, flailing like a fish, steam practically pouring out of his ears—

Hua Cheng’s eye opens, narrowing in on the fetus spirit. Sharply focus on the task at hand.

Suddenly, through the haze of Hua Cheng’s aura, Xie lian sees them—hundreds of Wraith butterflies.

Their wings as sharp as razor blades as they whip through the air, surrounding the spirit like a net, shrinking in as it screams in protest—throwing itself against them trying to escape—but unable to break free.

Xie Lian feels the hand on his jaw let go as Hu Cheng reaches into his pocket, pulling out a set of dice—but he’s simply to stunned to try pulling away, half expecting to be stopped again.

/Clack, clack!/

The air around them shifts—and it’s only when Hua Cheng starts pulling Xie Lian ashore that he understands the Ghost King’s intentions—

He was stopping the fetus spirit from flying into Xie Lian’s mouth again once they broke the surface, while still allowing him to breathe.

That being said, knowing all of that, he’s still in a daze when they reach the shore—his mouth swollen and numb when their lips part, eyes wide.

Hua Cheng sets him down carefully, looking the prince over with a tense expression.

“…Your highness?”

Xie Lian remains perfectly still at first, eyes wide, his mouth hanging open.

“I…um…” he swallows thickly, all while Hua Cheng is staring at him rather expectantly. “I…”

(Part of Xie Lian desperately wishes to be as disconnected and uncaring as he was when he asked for a kiss from Wu Ming all those years ago.)

He has no idea how he did that now. Because—

That wasn’t even a real kiss, and he still…

“…Thank you!” He blurts out suddenly.

Hua Cheng passed, his lips parted, and Xie Lian frantically explains—

“For the—air!” He croaks, pressing his hands against his face. “I…uh…”

“What—?”

“My hat!” He cries, feeling around on the ground. “Where did I—?”

He didn’t lose it, did he?

“You still have it…”

What does he mean?! Xie Lian doesn’t—!

…Oh.

Right.

It’s hanging from a cord around his neck, sitting against his shoulders—like it always is.

The prince falls silent, clutching it between his hands, facing away from him.

“…Your—?”

“…It’s cold…”

Hua Cheng falls silent, clearly taken off guard by Xie Lian’s admission, the god’s voice having become rather small, uncertain.

And of course—it’s not surprising that Xie Lian would be cold. He just jumped into a lake—he’s soaked to the bone.

What’s surprising, in the end, is that Xie Lian admitted it.

Or that he’s visibly shivering now.

Hua Cheng frowns, opening his mouth—

“…And I’m hungry!” Xie Lian mumbles, bobbing his head, like he’s come to some sort of important inclusion. “So, I should just, um…”

Go somewhere else, and proceed to never think about the fact that he immediately assumed Hua Cheng kissing him was the most obvious reason for why the man would have jumped to the bottom of a lake ever again.

It seems like a solid plan.

“I’m just gonna go…get some…Oh!”

He tries to stand up, twists his foot around a rock in the process—and of course, Hua Cheng catches him before he falls to the ground—

(Which is makes Xie Lian even more embarrassed, somehow.)

—but in the process, he notices something else.

Blood trailing from Xie Lian’s boot, onto the ground.

Naturally, the Ghost King reaches down, grasping him lightly by the calf as he examines the sole of Xie Lian’s boot, and the prince feels somewhat lightheaded.

He forgot!

He’d been so focused on chasing after the fetus spirit, he’d forgotten about the needle in his foot.

“…What happened?”

Hua Cheng’s voice is calm when he asks, but there’s an undeniable tension in the air—

Like something’s upset him.

Is that…Xie Lian’s fault?

“I…” The prince swallows thickly, trying to pull his leg back—but Hua Cheng shows no indication of letting him go—even if his grip is rather gentle. “I…stepped on something sharp,” he concludes.

“…” Hua Cheng falls silent, staring at the blood on the ground.

Xie Lian can’t see it, but…

His expression is dark.

“…San L—?”

Before Xie Lian can ask, he feels himself being pulled forward by that grip on his leg, his heart suddenly kicking into overdrive.

“Wh—?”

And just like that—he’s scooped up in the calamity’s arms.

“W…What are you—?”

Xie Lian feels silent when he hears a din of voices, realizing what Hua Cheng must have been doing, when he was rolling the dice before.

He brought them to Ghost City.

Normally, Xie Lian isn’t easily embarrassed.

He’s been in plenty of humiliating situations before. He’s often the punchline of the joke.

But he’s never been carried down the street by a ghost king, soaked, wearing women’s clothing, with his lips swollen.

It’s that combination of factors that leads him to hide his face in Hua Cheng’s chest, his shoulders shrinking in.

“Say, say! Hua Chengzhu!” One of the ghosts crows. “Ya kidnapping someone?”

“Do you need any help??” Someone in the crowd offers. “We can tie them up for you—!”

The ghost king doesn’t seem particularly flattered by the offer—

“Get lost,” he growls, his arms tightening around the prince.

Which leads Xie Lian to another question:

Why does Hua Cheng seem slightly older this time?

It’s barely noticeable—but still.

The last time Xie Lian saw him—that was his ‘true form,’ and it felt like he was in his early to mid twenties. Now—he feels mostly the same, but his voice is slightly rougher—and he isn’t exactly bigger than he was before—but there’s something more firm about him.

The ghosts part quickly after that, giving them quite a wide berth—but some of them whisper the same question under their breath—

‘Is that the lady that was looking for him before?’

Xie Lian’s cheeks might just spark into flames at this point.

‘The night Paradise Manor caught on fire?’

‘…But wasn’t that just the prince in disguise?!’

Xie Lian let’s out a soft groan of mortification, and Hua Cheng’s lips twitch.

Even in his displeasure, he’s slightly amused.

“What’s wrong, your highness?”

“…People are going to start thinking I have strange habits,” he mumbles, somewhat pathetically.

“And so what if you did?” The ghost king shrugs, but Xie Lian remains quiet—not seeming particularly comforted. “…Dianxia thinks highly of the wind master.”

“That’s different.”

Xie Lian feels somewhat like a sulking child—and Hua Cheng smiles.

“What about me, then?”

It takes Xie Lian a moment to understand what the Ghost King is getting at—at first, he’s too distracted by the fact that Hua Cheng’s voice—

It’s changed.

The calamity’s arms feel somewhat slimmer around him too—but just as strong, and—

Before, Hua Cheng’s chest was firm, and now…

Xie Lian lifts his head quickly, actually finding himself dizzy with embarrassment.

“I’m sorry!” He chokes, only for Hua Cheng to throw her head back with a soft laugh.

“For what?”

She’s still rather tall, which Xie Lian finds surprising—though maybe he shouldn’t—and the prince doesn’t know why he’s reacting like this.

He’s never been affected by a woman’s presence before, not even remotely, and now—

Xie Lian realizes something else.

‘Say, gege—these are really nice.’

“…That was you?!” He gasps, clapping a hand over his mouth.

Hua Cheng’s smile is half mischievous, half sheepish.

“I thought dianxia might insist on not letting me buy something.”

Well—she’s right. And Hua Cheng has already approached him in his older and younger forms—so switching into that of a young lady was actually rather clever—

Because Xie Lian never would have guessed.

“…You overpaid,” Xie Lian mumbles meekly, staring up into her face (and even though he can’t see it, he presumes she must be beautiful.)

Hua Cheng’s lips, painted the color of blood, curve into a soft smile.

“I could never,” she murmurs.

And there’s something else strange about this—

Hua Cheng just turned into a woman in the middle of the street, surrounded by other ghosts—and no one has said a word.

Not even out of politeness, fear, or respect—they just don’t seem to find it particularly shocking.

“…Do you…do this very often?” Xie Lian questions, pressing his hands against his cheeks—trying to use the coolness of his skin to calm them down.

“I change form so often, nothing surprises them anymore,” The ghost king drawls, then pauses.

“Well, I suppose the dragon did.”

“A—a dragon?” Xie Lian mumbles, unable to hide the shock from his voice—and Hua Cheng shrugs that off, her arms holding him a little more firmly as she ascends the steps to paradise manor, heels clicking quietly.

Ironically enough, her clothes are still that of a man.

They must make quite the pair.

A man, wearing women’s clothing, makeup, with his hair done—being carried by a women in a man’s clothes.

“Oh, that was centuries ago. I rarely have a fight that interesting.”

Xie Lian struggles to conceive a battle that might challenge her.

“…I didn’t know you could change your appearance so drastically,” Xie Lian admits, swallowing dryly.

Hua Cheng seems to take mercy on him then, shifting back into the form he originally appeared in—his voice—and chest—returning back to that of a man’s.

Xie Lian also realizes, now that he’s back to normal—Hua Cheng’s height didn’t change at all.

Xie Lian has never encountered a woman that tall before. And, while he has no idea why—trying to imagine it makes his face hot.

“All powerful ghosts are shape shifters, your highness.”

“Does…Blackwater change his appearance as often as you?”

“…He rarely wears his own face,” Hua Cheng replies carefully. “But he doesn’t use as many different forms as me.”

No one does.

“Doesn’t it ever feel…strange? Seeing your own face so rarely?”

Hua Cheng shrugs, his expression becoming distant.

“…I’ve never felt particularly attached to it,” he mutters.

And why should he, when the only person he’s ever cared about showing himself to…can’t see it?

“…” Xie Lian frowns, reaching up to press his palm against the Ghost King’s cheek without thinking.

His skin is soft—but the jaw lying beneath is sharp.

Hua Cheng falls silent—watching him intently, his footsteps stopping, and Xie Lian…

Slowly lowers his hand, looking away.

“…That’s a shame,” the god mutters, slowly—cautiously—leaning his head back against Hua Cheng’s chest.

He thinks the ghost king’s face is in no need of any false skins or disguises.

He’s already perfect, just as he is.

Hua Cheng’s gaze softens.

“I’m glad dianxia thinks so.”

As he’s carried through the halls of Paradise Manor, Xie Lian almost asks Hua Cheng to put him down, but…

When he remembers the Sinner’s Pit, that seems like a somewhat futile request.

Hua Cheng will put him down when he’s ready, not before.

So, instead…

“…Can you change your form into anything you want?” Xie Lian questions, feeling sorry for the water dripping from his clothes, leaving a wet trail on the floor—but Hua Cheng doesn’t seem to mind.

“To the limits of my own imagination,” Hua Cheng shrugs.

“Can Blackwater do the same?”

The calamity quirks an eyebrow. “You seem pretty curious about him.”

Whenever he asks if Hua Cheng can do something—the question ‘can Blackwater do it too?’ Always seems to follow.

Xie Lian pauses, having only just realized he was doing that.

“…Well…he’s the only other ghost king,” Xie Lian explains. “I suppose I was just wondering if some talents were exclusive to calamities, or…”

Well, come to think of it—Ren Song can shape shift as well, and he’s only a savage ranked ghost.

Not as frequently or with the same level of ease as Hua Cheng—but he can.

“…We each have our own talents,” the calamity shrugs, and instead of offering up any information about Blackwater, he adds—

“I’m better at changing my shape than him.”

Xie Lian bites back a smile, his face pressed against Hua Cheng’s robes. “Oh?”

Hua Cheng doesn’t expand on it further.

Personally, he finds He Xuan’s female form unconvincing, and more oriented around what Blackwater himself likes in a woman, rather than something believable.

After all—disguises aren’t meant to be designed around what you’re attracted to. It’s more about what others want to see, getting what you want out of them.

He’d never considered showing his female form to his god before—only intending to make Xie Lian less self conscious.

…But that reaction wasn’t bad.

“He almost always remains in a human form, anyway.” Hua Cheng shrugs. “That isn’t difficult.”

“But you don’t?”

“When I want to go unnoticed? It’s rare that I pose as a human.”

It’s the simplest means of hiding in plain sight.

He Xuan prefers digging into things, ingratiating himself in the lives of his targets, getting to know them inside and out.

Hua Cheng has always found getting that close to be a double edged blade.

He’d much rather be a cat, listening as he lazes on a street corner instead.

Or a fox, hiding beneath the bushes as travelers walk by. A hawk, sitting on the roof eaves overhead.

Part of the background—but rarely an active participant.

Of course, those aren’t the only reasons he’ll take an inhuman form—he’s done such things in battle before.

Actually—during his early days in Mount Tonglu, before he became completely accustomed to fighting with E’Ming, he often opted to simply change into the form of a beast, tearing his enemies apart with claws and fangs.

As a wolf, a tiger, and the like.

Xie Lian is curious—simply because he’s never heard of anything like that before, but…

There’s the sound of a door swinging open as he’s carried into a private room, then the sound of it sliding shut behind them.

Hua Cheng pauses briefly, considering.

“…San Lang?”

Finally, the prince feels himself being set down—this time upon a cushioned stool.

(Hua Cheng doesn’t seem keen on the idea of allowing him to walk or stand just yet.)

Before Xie Lian can question what they’re doing—or why they’re here—something is placed into his hands.

…Clothes.

A changing screen appears between them rather suddenly—and even still, Hua Cheng turns around, crossing his arms.

“Wh—?”

“You’re cold.”

Xie Lian holds the garments between his hands, his heart warming slightly in his chest.

Always so thoughtful and considerate.

Honestly—Xie Lian is cold, but not enough so to be truly bothered by it. He only blurted that out beside the lake, because…well, he hadn’t known what else to say.

Still, he’s grateful.

The act of peeling off his wet dress is slightly difficult on his own—which no doubt occurred to Hua Cheng, but when warring with the need to be helpful and the desire to be respectful, he seemed to submit to the latter.

But, for once, thinking of how intent Hua Cheng was that Xie Lian not aggravate his foot any further…

…The prince is actually careful with one of his own injuries, not wanting to waste the ghost king’s efforts.

He leans against the stool when he slips out of the dress, wincing when it lands on the floor with a wet thud—feeling sorry for the mess, but Hua Cheng genuinely doesn’t seem to care…

He hops on his good foot to step out of it, using the stool for support—and a towel awaits.

Xie Lian’s skin is mostly just damp at those point—but he still uses it to pat the remaining moisture from his limbs and stomach, squeezing it out of his hair as best as he can.

Unlike his last visit—these clothes don’t fit perfectly.

The sleeves and pant legs are overlong, and wide in the shoulders.

In short, they’re too big. Which is surprising, since Hua Cheng’s clothes for guests had been perfectly fitted before, and Xie Lian had assumed the size magically adjusted to the wearer, but—

Sensing the prince’s confusion, Hua Cheng frowns, seeming somewhat torn.

“I’ll have something more suitable brought for his highness. But it seemed anything would be preferable to wet clothes.”

Meaning—

Oh.

Hua Cheng, in a hurry, probably just gave Xie Lian…his own clothes.

“It…um…” Xie Lian swallows hard, his fingers suddenly unsteady as he tries to to work the belt on the pants, which seem to slip down each time he tries to lean over to cuff the legs. “I…I see…”

“…Have I offended dianxia?” The calamity questions, concerned.

“No!”

Now, Xie Lian is silently cursing his eating habits.

He used to feel an odd level of pride in how little food he could live off of, considering it ‘economical.’ Now, struggling to keep another man’s pants up over his hips…

…Maybe he really should eat more…

…If only to avoid situations like this…

To be fair, they don’t fall down completely. But they won’t sit over his waist—the decent place for them to be—rather falling past his hips, only to be caught by the wider area of his thighs and backside, which even now, are still…

…The point is, they don’t sit at an appropriate place on his body, no matter how much he tightens the strings at the waist, and even still, they’re long enough that his feet just won’t…

Xie Lian’s face is hot, feeling the cool air against his hips and navel.

…This isn’t decent, not decent at all…

“S…San Lang doesn’t need to worry about that,” he mumbles, fumbling for the rest of the inner robes. “I can just make something for myself, after this…and give these back, of course!” He adds frantically, feeling silly.

It’s not like Hua Cheng would have been worried about Xie Lian stealing them. What is he thinking?

“Dianxia doesn’t have to—”

“I-I know!” He agrees, finding the rest of the inner robes less of a headache. “I just like making my own, if that’s alright!”

They’re too long, yes—and they keep slipping off of one shoulder—but he’s not fighting to keep them on his body. And with the heavier outer robes overtop of it—he’s very warm, at least.

Part of him contemplates forgoing the pants underneath entirely, given how long the outer robes are, it’s not like anyone would really be able to tell, and it would be easier to walk, but…

Xie Lian hasn’t ever been in a state of undress around…well…

Pretty much anyone, aside from Mu Qing—and that was different. It was perfectly businesslike, and it was something they did every day and every night. Part of the routine.

This isn’t like that, and he…well…

Xie Lian keeps the pants on, awkward as keeping them up might be.

Once he’s finished, he grasps the edge of the stool, hopping on one foot (feeling somewhat ridiculous, but trying to be respectful of Hua Cheng’s concern) to move back around the changing screen, but…

The minute the ghost king realizes Xie Lian is decent, he’s picked back up.

And when he’s set back down again, Xie Lian realizes he’s been sat at the foot of a bed.

A very comfortable one, giving gently under his weigh, silk sheets beneath his palms.

And Hua Cheng wastes no time kneeling in front of him, making Xie Lian stiffen once again.

“Wh—?”

Then, when long, cool fingers envelop the prince’s ankle—Xie Lian lets out a surprised yelp, his eyes widening.

“S-San Lang—?!”

He jerks slightly with protest, but Hua Cheng holds him firmly, lifting his foot up for inspection.

“Apologies, your highness…” He murmurs.

Xie Lian tilts his chin back, feeling slightly lightheaded—

And suddenly, desperately relieved that he didn’t choose to forgo the pants, because that would have left Hua Cheng right in the middle of his…uh…

“This might be uncomfortable.”

Xie Lian is caught between two different spheres of thought.

First: Hua Cheng’s fingers easily wrap all the way around the bones of his ankle, overlapping in places. Xie Lian has no idea why, but there’s something exceedingly distracting about that fact.

Second…

“…W…What are you going to—?”

Then, the answer becomes clear.

Hua Cheng’s fingers hover over the arch of his foot, claws slightly extended, using them for the careful precision required to draw the needle out of his foot.

T…the…

Xie Lian smacks a hand over his mouth so hard, he inadvertently slaps himself, falling backwards, his shoulders bouncing slightly when they hit the bed.

Hua Cheng doesn’t let go—but his voice is filled with concern.

“Is it too painful?”

“…”

Xie Lian swallows thickly, shaking his head.

“…No…” He croaks between his fingers, his voice cracking slightly—but not from pain. “It…doesn’t hurt…”

(In truth, he was so startled when he felt Hua Cheng’s claw against his foot—he couldn’t help but thrash slightly.)

“…” Hua Cheng frowns, his gaze filled with concern—but he draws the needle the rest of the way out. It hovers above the ghost king’s palm for a moment, sparking with dark energy—and he glares.

“…That’s a nasty fetus spirit you were hunting,” he mutters.

“The poison was potent.”

Oh, was it poisoned? That explains why Xie Lian’s foot went somewhat numb, after. He had just assumed it was because of the cold from the—

Something else presses against the arch of his foot now. Soft, gentle.

It’s—

Xie Lian’s eyes snap wide open.

He just—

The prince sucks in a startled gasp, his leg jerking.

“S-San Lang—!”

The Ghost King leans back, letting his ankle go.

“There,” he murmurs, rising to his feet. “Better?”

Xie Lian is frozen in place, his hands covering his face.

“…”

Right.

…Right.

Xie Lian’s mind races back to the tunnel, after Hua Cheng swept him away from the heavens.

That—

That was medical, just healing Xie Lian’s arm faster than he could have otherwise.

…The prince wiggles his toes cautiously, hearing an affectionate snort in the background.

Regardless—his foot isn’t numb anymore, and feels relatively back to normal, so…

Hua Cheng was just being helpful.

Xie Lian swallows thickly, clearing his throat.

“…It’s…It’s much better, San Lang…” He mumbles, waiting for the heat in his face to go down. “…Thank you…”

“You’re very welcome, dianxia.” The ghost king replies easily—then pauses its a slight frown. “…Excuse me for just one moment—I’ll be right back.”

“…Is something wrong?”

“No,” Hua Cheng quickly assures him. “Just an insignificant matter, rest a minute.”

Xie Lian falls silent, listening as the door opens and shuts once more, still laying back on top of the bed. It must be massive, just from the feel of it. Far more so than the guest bed he was placed in before.

As a matter of fact, the entire room is larger.

Not that the space Hua Cheng placed Xie Lian in before was drab or small at all—it certainly wasn’t.

But this room has several adjoining areas. A slightly more…lived in feel. And when Xie Lian places his hand on the bedside cabinet—there are reports under his fingertips.

Xie Lian immediately shrinks his hand back up on feeling them.

He’s already snuck through Hua Cheng’s things before once—he doesn’t want to violate the ghost king’s trust like that again. Especially not without good reason, but…

…Is this…

…Is this Hua Cheng’s bedroom?

That seems like the most logical conclusion…which means…

…Xie Lian is in Hua Cheng’s bedroom…wearing his clothes…in…

His fingers bunch up in the sheets underneath him, his heart skipping a beat.

…In Hua Cheng’s bed.

Which—that shouldn’t be a big deal.

They’ve shared a bed before, in Puqi shrine. For several nights, in fact.

But…that was before…and…

…They never wore each other’s clothes…or…healed one another’s injured feet, with their…In Xie Lian’s…

He rolls over onto his side, pulling his feet up against his chest.

He’s never been in a situation like this before. He doesn’t know…

Only a few minutes after leaving, the door opens again—and Xie Lian sits straight up, damp hair slightly askew.

“S-San Lang—was everything alright?” He mumbles, trying his best to sound…unaffected by everything

“Oh,” The Ghost King leans against the doorframe, one eye fixed on the sight of the crown prince. “It was fine. Some fool was in the gambler’s den, causing a fuss.”

“…A fuss?” Xie Lian’s eyebrows raise.

“Insisting on a meeting with me,” Hua Cheng shrugs. “Very annoying.”

But Hua Cheng obviously came back instead of dealing with him, so…

Xie Lian frowns, feeling somewhat…guilty.

“I don’t want to get in the way of your business…” He mutters, fiddling with his hair—which is slightly tangled now—and Hua Cheng shakes his head.

“No.”

Xie Lian glances up, startled—and the calamity explains:

“I didn’t want to deal with him. Dianxia hasn’t done anything but give me something better to do. He can wait.”

Xie Lian’s lips twitch up from their frown, reluctantly soothed. “For how long?”

Hua Cheng shrugs.

“Until I feel like it.”

That’s fair—after all, it’s his territory. And for someone to approach the gambler’s den of all things, demanding an audience with Hua Cheng…

Thinking of that—Xie Lian realizes something.

Or, more like—he remembers something—and his brow creases.

Hua Cheng is quick to notice the change in the prince’s expression, tilting his head. “…Is something wrong?”

“No,” Xie Lian mutters, shaking his head. “No, it’s just…”

“Just…?”

“…” His frown deepens as he struggles to formulate his question.

“…San Lang…”

“…Yes?”

“Before, ah…In the water…” Xie Lian squeezes his eyes shut, forcing himself to just spit the words out—

“You were just trying to help me, right? Making sure the fetus spirit wouldn’t…”

The Ghost King stiffens, his expression suddenly guarded—and that tension is back.

“…if your highness already thinks so, why ask?”

“Well…” Xie Lian swallows hard. “Technically speaking…I still owe you one.”

Hua Cheng’s eyebrows raise sharply.

“From when I lost back then. And I wasn’t sure if that was…well…”

Slowly, as he recovers from the shock…

…The ghost king smiles.

“I wouldn’t want to presume what his highness would count as a kiss.”

Xie Lian pauses, his expression slightly vexed as Hua Cheng’s eye flashes.

“Does dianxia think it counts?”

“…”

Xie Lian swallows—

No, he gulps.

“I…don’t…I’m not really…”

He’s practically squirming, trying to wrap his mind around the correct answer.

“I don’t really have enough experience to…”

Somehow, Hua Cheng’s eyebrows raise even higher.

“But his highness has kissed someone before, he told this San Lang.”

“…”

…Heavens, he did say that…

Hua Cheng’s lips quirk up into a smile so wide, so amused, it’s almost painful.

(It’s moments like this when he’s glad he doesn’t have to manage his expressions around the prince.)

“…With a man,” he adds innocently, just as Xie Lian had in the gambler’s den, weeks before.

Xie Lian’s pallor is rapidly beginning to resemble that of a tomato.

“San Lang!” He chokes, burying his face in his hands. “You’re making fun of me—I’m being serious!”

“So am I,” Hua Cheng presses a hand over his heart, eyes wide. “I’m referring to gege’s expertise.”

…It’s the first time he’s called Xie Lian gege since they reunited, and that alone eases the god’s anxiety somewhat.

(He really was worried that Hua Cheng was upset with him, but too polite to say so.)

“…Hua Cheng almost certainly has more experience than me,” he mutters.

The ghost king doesn’t seem particularly embarrassed either way. “What makes gege so certain?”

“Um…” Xie Lian glances in his direction, then looks away, staring down at the bed blindly. “I don’t know…just…um…a feeling…”

Hua Cheng tilts his head to the side, seeming content to watch him flail.

“I…ah…” Xie Lian bows his head, feeling somewhat pitiful. “San Lang…you do have experience, yes?”

After a pause, Hua Cheng finally takes mercy on him.

“I do, dianxia.”

“Then…you know…”

Hua Cheng twists at the end of his braid lightly, rolling something between his fingertips.

“My intention was to protect gege from the fetus spirit,” he explains, watching Xie Lian’s expression. “That…isn’t the way I kiss a person.”

Xie Lian pauses, eyes wide.

“But, if gege thinks it counts…”

“I don’t think it counts.”

Hua Cheng stops, biting back a smile as his eyebrows raise. “Oh?”

Xie Lian shakes his head, refusing to look up—even if he couldn’t make eye contact with Hua Cheng anyway.

“It’s all about…intention, right?”

“…I agree,” The ghost king agrees, and Xie Lian could practically cry with relief, but…

“…Still, I won’t collect the debt unless gege says it’s alright.”

The prince desperately wishes the ghost king would stop putting the ball so firmly on his side of the court.

It…

Xie Lian feels…awkward…he just…

He doesn’t know whether to laugh, or cry.

He clears his throat, lifting his chin. “It’s fine!”

Hua Cheng watches him closely.

“I already told San Lang back then…I’m really…”

The mattress sinks slightly in front of him, and Xie Lian gulps.

It’s really fine.

It’s better this way, actually.

He’ll feel better, when he doesn’t have this hanging over his—

Cold fingertips brush over his cheek, delicately pushing a lock of hair behind the prince’s ear.

Such a small, gentle touch.

The god shivers.

Those fingers drift down, ever so carefully. Caressing the shape of his jaw, before finally grasping his chin.

He’s close, he must be—and when he speaks, the sound of his voice of a confirmation, making Xie Lian jump slightly, surprised.

“You’re sure?”

Xie Lian feels like his heart is in his throat, and he’s fighting to swallow it down.

“Yes,” he whispers, trying to sound more firm than he feels. “Yes, I—”

His voice cuts off with a surprised sound as lips press against his jaw, drifting higher in such a gentle, familiar way.

Just like…

The fingers on his chin grasp him slightly more firmly, and Xie Lian’s breath hitches.

Like…

Then, those lips are on his, and there’s no thinking at all.

No shyness. No anxiety or second guessing.

Just the gentle press of another mouth against his own.

It it is different.

Not only because it isn’t so sudden, forcing Xie Lian’s mouth open so he can push air down his throat, but—

Because Xie Lian saw it coming.

Because the prince reaffirmed it, each step of the way before he felt Hua Cheng’s lips on his.

And each time he died that—

It built anticipation. To the point where he was silently wondering what it would feel like. Aching. Wishing he would just get it over with, and now—

Now, Hua Cheng’s lower lip slides between his, and it’s like Xie Lian can’t breathe.

Xie Lian hasn’t been kissed very many times in his life.

The first—he refuses to think about. Refuses to count.

The second was perfect, but his motivations were wrong.

(After all, Xie Lian had simply wanted to reclaim his first kiss as his own.)

But this—this is different.

Because it was entirely up to him. And in the end, he could have easily saved face and said that the mouth to mouth counted, but—

‘That isn’t the way I kiss someone.’

That made Xie Lian…curious. Because…

…How did Hua Cheng kiss someone?

The answer is…

Sweetly.

Slowly, and…Intimately.

His hand cups the back of Xie Lian’s neck again, stroking gently, holding him in place.

The prince can’t resist another shiver.

But it doesn’t stay that way.

Eventually, the ghost king moves like he’s about to lean back, and Xie Lian’s stomach sinks.

Already? But—

Then, Xie Lian realizes it’s probably because he hasn’t done more than sit limply in Hua Cheng’s hold, and—

The prince’s arms lift up from where they’ve been stiff as a board, braced behind him on the bed—instead wrapping around the Ghost King’s neck.

And he’s struck again by a familiar thought. Bittersweet, swelling in his chest:

Just a little longer.

He mumbles those words—not even realizing it, or meaning to—and Hua Cheng’s hand tightens on the back of his neck.

Just…a little bit longer.

Hua Cheng is frozen for a moment, his mind far away. Thoughts so far beyond the prince’s imagining, he couldn’t even guess.

But he does as his god wishes.

The hand on the back of Xie Lian’s neck slides up into his hair, cradling the base of his skull, guiding him to tilt his head further back.

When he does, their lips part—and the kiss deepens.

Xie Lian takes a shuddering breath, his eyelashes fluttering.

Oh.

It’s alien at first, tasting someone else for the first time. And Xie Lian realizes—

Hua Cheng must have had something to drink, when he went to check on the gambler’s den—there’s a faint hint of whiskey. Not unpleasant—just—

…It feels odd, describing someone that way, but Hua Cheng…

…He tastes expensive.

And Xie Lian can’t help but chase it, his arms tightening around the ghost king’s neck, pulling himself closer, and closer, until…

They tip backwards.

Whether it was because Xie Lian forgot his own strength, or because Hua Cheng simply wasn’t expecting the prince to pull on him so tightly, it’s hard to say.

Either way, he catches himself with one hand on the bed, braced next to Xie Lian’s head.

His other arm is around the prince’s waist, and his knee…

Well, to keep himself properly lifted away from Xie Lian’s body, it’s braced against the bed…between the god’s thighs.

This…

Xie Lian’s hands flutter unsurely, grasping at his shoulders, clutching onto him.

It’s so…

There’s something about the feeling of Hua Cheng’s form hovering over him, practically enveloping him. His arm around him. His mouth on Xie Lian’s—

Having someone on top of him.

There’s something about it that flips a switch in the prince’s mind.

And it shifts his focus.

Before, he was really only thinking about curiosity. Wondering what Hua Cheng meant. And, of course, what his intentions were, pulling him out of that lake.

Right now, Xie Lian isn’t thinking about curiosity. He isn’t thinking about what Hua Cheng meant

He isn’t thinking about wagers, debts, or anything like that. He isn’t thinking about the fetal spirit—or even his original task, buying food for the shrine.

All he’s is thinking of, in that moment—is that he does /not/ want Hua Cheng to stop.

If he does, Xie Lian might die.

Just then, the ghost king gives his lower lip a gentle suck—and Xie Lian feels his soul float away from him, drifting somewhere in the rafters, aimless.

The sound that rips out of the back of his throat is quiet, and—

Weird.

Xie Lian’s never made a sound like that before.

But it pulls a reaction out of Hua Cheng, because—

He growls.

Xie Lian’s heard him do that before. Always at other people, and mostly when he was angry.

But he certainly doesn’t seem angry right now, and—

There’s a difference between hearing Hua Cheng growl at someone else, and /feeling/ Hua Cheng growling against his lips.

It goes straight into him, reverberating straight down to the bone, settling in the pit of the prince’s stomach until it does backflips, and he…

Xie Lian finds himself melting under every touch, completely pliant, his fingers loosely gripping the ghost king’s robes—and he wonders;

…What happens if they don’t stop?

What happens then?

Does Hua Cheng keep kissing him until he simply can’t anymore? What comes after that?

Tragically, Xie Lian doesn’t think about it further than that—doesn’t get the chance to—because Hua Cheng pulls back.

The first time their lips part, he’s panting for air, shivering all over—just to find his mouth covered once more by one last kiss, this one chaste and sweet.

Xie Lian’s eyes blink open, staring ahead blankly—lips parted and swollen, his face flushed—and Hua Cheng whispers something to him, such a simple question, but it takes Xie Lian’s brain a moment to catch up—

“Are you still cold, gege?”

He—Oh—

“…N…no,” the prince whispers.

The calamity smiles softly, leaning up to press another kiss against his god’s forehead—taking advantage of the fact that Xie Lian is far too dazed to take much note of it.

“Dianxia wasn’t lying before…” He murmurs, sitting up.

Xie Lian blinks hazily. “A…about what?”

Hua Cheng’s smile hasn’t faded as he leans back, carefully pushing Xie Lian’s hair from his face.

“Gege really does have experience—I was barely keeping up.”

“…” The prince throws an arm over his face with a sheepish groan. “San Lang, don’t tease me.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

Oh, but he would.

Still—

Xie Lian can’t really seem to bring himself to mind.

So—that’s what it’s like, when Hua Cheng intends to kiss someone. It’s…

Xie Lian doesn’t lift his arm from his face, biting his lip.

“…gege?” Hua Cheng questions, and Xie Lian—

“…I’m hungry,” he mumbles, his voice unsteady.

Hua Cheng stares at him for a moment, stunned—and that was exactly what Xie Lian said before, when he pulled him ashore.

The prince hears the ghost let out a soft laugh, and he bites his lip.

“I really am, this time!”

“Alright, alright…” Hua Cheng shakes his head, still chuckling as he leans back.

Xie Lian half expects the calamity to insist on having an entire feast laid out again—but instead, Hua Cheng simply has several plates brought directly to his room.

By the same officer Xie Lian saw during his first visit to ghost city—the one Ren Song called the “Waning Moon officer.”

Xie Lian takes a bite of mantou, chewing thoughtfully.

Hua Cheng watches a bare sliver of shoulder before the prince seems to notice his outer robe is slipping down again, adjusting it.

“…So, these are the snacks,” he mumbles, swallowing another bite.

Hua Cheng arches an eyebrow, intrigued. “Hmm?”

“Well…” The god smiles.

“Ren Song said he has a place of his own—but that the waning moon officer isn’t there,” he explains, chewing carefully. “And he makes his snacks.”

“…” The ghost king snorts, shaking his head. “Gege’s guess is correct, as usual. Has he been causing you any trouble?”

“Who?” Xie Lian blinks. “Ren Song? No…” He shakes his head. “He’s actually been very helpful.”

Hua Cheng raises an eyebrow. “Has he?”

“Mmhm…” The prince hums, popping a slice of pear into his mouth. “…He built me an attic.”

“How generous.”

“He’s a very generous person…” Xie Lian mumbles, repeating Shuo’s words.

Hua Cheng might have had several plates brought, but Xie Lian only eats one mantou, along with half of a pear before he leans back, full.

Part of him can’t help but wonder if he’s supposed to feel…

Different. Given what they just did.

But…

Hua Cheng is behaving normally. He doesn’t seem bothered, so…

…Why should he?

After all—that was just…squaring a gambling debt. Obviously.

Still, there’s a relaxed air between them. A sense of ease that Xie Lian…isn’t used to.

Even when Hua Cheng carries the plates off, and Xie Lian expects him to return and discuss the fetal spirit, but…

Instead, the ghost king sits on the bed behind him, a comb in hand…And he begins to brush Xie Lian’s hair.

The prince pauses, startled, because…

He really can’t remember the last time someone did that for him. Mu Qing did, when he was posing as a bride—but those circumstances were so different.

“Oh, San Lang—you don’t have to—”

“I want to.” Hua Cheng shakes his head.

“After all, it was my fault gege got soaked…”

Xie Lian frowns at the implication—but leans back into the comb nonetheless.

“I was the one who jumped in a lake, San Lang…”

“Yes,” he agrees with a hum, delicately working at the ends of Xie Lian’s hair.

“But I should have intervened before it reached that point.”

Xie Lian opens his mouth to argue, because it certainly wasn’t Hua Cheng’s responsibility to deal with that—and how could he have? But…

He was already in the area.

‘Say, gege…’

(Suddenly, his ears are hot.)

And if Xie Lian had been nearby, and a friend had been in a difficult situation…well, he would have felt guilty about it too. So, he can’t completely fault Hua Cheng for that.

Still.

“Well…you did help me, though,” Xie Lian mumbles.

“Besides, I’ve been in more difficult situations than that—and I had a plan for dealing with the spirit, so…”

“I imagine you did.” Hua Cheng agrees, his voice…distinctly disapproving.

Xie Lian sits a little straighter, staring straight ahead innocently, but…

“…Did that plan have anything to do with hurting yourself while the fetal spirit was trapped inside of you?”

Xie Lian’s silence is equivalent to an admission, and Hua Cheng sighs deeply.

“Dianxia.”

The prince remains quiet, his lips pressing into a thin line.

“…You shouldn’t harm yourself unnecessarily,” the ghost king mutters, staring down at his fingers as they work through his god’s hair, silently self loathing.

Still, Xie Lian doesn’t respond, his shoulders hunched.

Hua Cheng stares at his back. How slumped and vulnerable Xie Lian looks in this moment.

“…What are you thinking about?”

Oddly enough—

No one has ever asked Xie Lian that before, and it leaves him feeling…

Almost self conscious.

“…You don’t want to know, San Lang.”

No one ever really wants to know what Xie Lian is actually thinking.

Even in the very beginning, when he had everything—people only wanted him to say what they wanted to hear. The uglier things—those went unsaid.

And aside from that—

No one wants to listen to Xie Lian anymore.

“…What makes you think I don’t, your highness?”

His voice is gentle, his eye focused on the task at hand, even if he occasionally sneaks glances at Xie Lian’s posture.

Still so tense and guarded.

“…It isn’t exactly…a pleasant topic,” the god mutters.

Hua Cheng is quiet for a moment, and at first—Xie Lian thinks he might have successfully steered him away from the subject. But…

“…I’m sure you’ve heard things…about how ghost kings are born.”

From Jun Wu, yes.

About the incredible level of pain and torment it takes.

“Do you really think there’s a subject too unpleasant for me?”

No, he supposes not.

And there’s something…oddly comforting about that.

Xie Lian’s most painful memories are his, and his alone. There is no one left alive to share them with.

No one that could…understand.

“…During the festival,” Xie Lian’s expression is hidden from view like this—and his voice is low, calm. “Did you…hear about the plays that took place in the Heavens?”

There’s a pause before the Ghost King answers.

Xie Lian doesn’t doubt that he knows.

Hua Cheng has spies in the heavens—Jun Wu told him as much.

“I did.”

“And did you…hear about mine?” The god asks quietly.

“…Yes.”

Xie Lian couldn’t stand to admit it to Shi Qingxuan, Feng Xin, or Mu Qing, but…

“…That really did happen.”

With Hua Cheng…it comes easily.

The ghost king doesn’t react strongly, like he’s surprised—if anything, he just sounds…

“…Is dianxia trying to say…compared to that, being stabbed is nothing?”

Hua Cheng sounds just as guarded as Xie Lian feels, but the prince doesn’t know why.

“No, I mean…yes, but…”

(Tw//discussions of self harming behavior and past suicide attempts)

Xie Lian closes his eyes, biting his lip—his hands balling up into fists in his laps.

“…Nothing hurt, after that. Not even when I tried to…”

“Tried to what?”

Xie Lian swallows hard.

“When I tried to die.”

It feels a little…different, admitting something like that to a ghost. Maybe a somewhat self centered. After all, if given the choice, he’d most likely rather be alive.

And here Xie Lian is, remembering how badly he wanted to be…

Not even dead—just…gone.

“…Do you still want to?”

It’s a reasonable question, even if Hua Cheng asks it calmly.

“Not anymore,” Xie Lian replies quietly.

It’s only half true.

Unlike other times in his life, he doesn’t actively crave oblivion.

But there are always passing moments of temptation.

That’s the thing about it that no one tells you. The ugliness to suicide that never makes it into the pages of books or the lines of poems.

Because sometimes, you don’t die.

And living with the fact that you wanted to isn’t so simple that it could be slipped into the pages of a book, or a few lines of verse.

Something cracks open, in your mind, when you admit to the possibility of just…giving up.

Just…stopping everything.

And you’re so tired.

It’s like a dark hole that opens up in the corner of any room that you’re in, one that has a gravity of it’s own.

And if you just don’t look at it, you’re alright, and it isn’t there.

But if you do look, it drags you back in.

For Xie Lian, that’s enduring:

Not looking at it.

But he did look, during the festival.

He looked, and he looked, and if he hadn’t been with Shi Qingxuan, or Feng Xin, and Mu Qing—or Shuo after that—

Xie Lian doesn’t think he would have looked way from it so easily.

“…Nothing hurts, anymore.” He explains quietly.

Except that isn’t exactly true.

Now, Xie Lian often finds himself hurting when he should be happy, and feeling nothing at all when he should be in pain.

Like those wires were severed by Bai Wuxiang, then reconnected to the wrong parts.

“But sometimes, I…need it to,” he admits, feeling somewhat ashamed. “Just to know that I…”

That he’s still capable of feeling it.

“…I must sound so ridiculous,” the prince shrinks, finally seeming to remember to be self aware of how…horrible it all must sound. “I’m sorry—”

“You don’t.” Hua Cheng hasn’t spoken, not since Xie Lian used the words, ‘When I tried to die.’

“Remember what I said, before?”

About ghost kings, and how they’re made.

About how nothing is too terrible for him to hear.

Xie Lian nods quietly, his shoulders still slumped.

“I used to feel that way, too.”

Now that—

That leaves Xie Lian surprised, turning his chin slightly—even if he can’t see Hua Cheng when he looks back at him.

The ghost king reaches out, stroking his fingertips over the prince’s cheek.

“…You did?”

"When I was very, very young," Hua Cheng explains. "I never craved the ability to feel pain, but I was subjected to it so often, I..."

The mind finds ways of protecting itself.

Hong'er knew it hurt, when he was being beaten--but the feeling was removed from him.

The night he died--he felt it, each time Qi Rong cut him. It was more painful than anything he had ever experienced. Only to be surpassed by when his soul was dispersed, as Wu Ming.

But Hong'er didn't scream. Even in a frail, mortal body.

He suspects that's why he thrived on Mount Tonglu.

After all--it takes more than mere grit, to claw out your own eye.

"...Do you feel it now?" Xie Lian whispers, biting his lip.

Searching for some reassurance that, at some point--that numbness begins to fade.

"...I do," Hua Cheng answers slowly, thoughtfully. "My tolerance will always be high, but...that doesn't mean I don't feel it."

Which makes Xie Lian wonder.

Is it simply that...he can't feel pain, or...that his mind has simply learned to ignore it?

Some things do hurt, after all. And when they do, it's almost a relief.

The cursed iron shackle Wen Jiao placed upon him in Gusu--that hurt. More than anything in nearly eight centuries.

And now, upon contemplation...

"...How did it get better?"

Hua Cheng's answer is refreshing in it's simplicity:

"I became so strong, nothing could hurt me anymore."

Yes, that is rather believable.

It's difficult, trying to imagine someone powerful enough to wound Hua Cheng. Certainly Jun Wu, but anything short of that...

"It came slowly, but...once I started to believe that I was safe, and the pain wasn't coming...I started feeling things again."

"..." Xie Lian's lips turn up at the corners, but his eyes...are saddened. "I wish I could do that."

The comb pauses in his hair.

"Why couldn't you?"

The prince remains silent for a moment, pulling his legs up against his chest, wrapping his arms around them.

Feeling rather small, and hopeless in that moment.

Like a child he once knew.

"I'm not like you, San Lang," he whispers.

The ghost king sets the comb aside.

"Not like me?"

"...I'm not strong."

That admission feels terrifying, because physically speaking--Xie Lian knows that he isn't weak. He never has been. HIs body has always faithfully done what he needed it to do.

His mind, however...

A palm presses against his back. So gentle, rubbing smooth circles into Xie Lian’s skin.

“You have always been strong, your highness.”

Far, far stronger than Hua Cheng.

Every single moment of pain the ghost king endured—he did so with a purpose.

Knowing his god was waiting.

If he hadn’t…

He wouldn’t have made it very far.

Without Xie Lian, he wouldn’t have even made it past that day, when he fell from the city walls.

But the prince has endured so much with no hope of relief.

And that sort of strength is beyond Hua Cheng’s imagination.

Still, Xie Lian doesn’t seem to believe it, slumped forward, shrinking in on himself.

“…And until you start to believe that…”

(I’ll keep you safe.)

“…You can feel other things, besides pain.”

Xie Lian almost asks what he means, until he feels Hua Cheng take his hand.

Xie Lian’s palms, being that of a god, heal from every scrape and callous—leaving them as soft and delicate as when he was a sheltered prince.

Even if everything else about him has changed.

Hua Cheng’s are rougher, with long, slender fingers—gently squeezing his own.

“…Thank you, San Lang,” he mumbles. It doesn’t feel…like he deserves any comfort. Not after putting the ghost king through so much trouble, or taking up so much of his time, but…

Hua Cheng certainly doesn’t seem to mind.

At some point, he starts combing Xie Lian’s hair again

And now…it’s hard not to lean into it. To relax under Hua Cheng’s touch—taking comfort in it.

Even if Xie Lian struggles to justify allowing himself to to so.

There’s something inherently soothing about it, and without realizing it at all…

He’s being held.

Only a few hours before, he was struggling to force himself to fall asleep—and now, he can barely manage to keep his eyes open.

…When has anything ever been this easy?

“I forgot…” he mumbles, his words broken by a yawn.

He doesn’t see it, but the ghost king smiles.

“Forgot what?”

“To thank you…” Xie Lian sighs, his eyes sliding shut.

“Dianxia doesn’t need to thank me.”

But he does, he does…for…

There’s faint humming in his ear. So, so familiar, but Xie Lian can’t put his finger on when he’s heard the melody before, but…

And of course, if Xie Lian could remember his dreams, he would know.

Because the minute he drifts off, he's in a very different scene, from so long ago.

Sleeping beside the fire, his cheek pressed against a bamboo sleeping mat.

So comfortable.

So safe.

"...Hong'er?" He mumbles, pushing himself up, rubbing his eyes. "I don't think I've heard that one before."

The teenager is stoking the fire, keeping it burning bright. He should be sleeping, but he's always off doing chores by the time Xie Lian wakes up.

"...It's just some song my mother used to sing, dianxia, I didn't mean to wake you."

He says it so offhandedly, but...

Hong'er has almost never spoken about his mother before.

"Did she sing to you often?"

The boy pauses, considering it.

"I think so. Most nights."

His tone is half apologetic, half mischievous. "I was terrible about going to sleep."

The thought of that makes Xie Lian smile.

The song is beautiful. Wistful. Simple lyrics, but with a satisfying melody, rising and falling like the tides, the sound gently rocking him.

It's a perfect lullaby.

"Sleep a little longer, dianxia."

A hand reaches for his, squeezing in quiet reassurance.

"You're tired."

And he is.

Xie Lian is so, so tired.

But he doesn't want to go yet.

He wants to hear that song...just a little longer.

He...

(Please, just a little longer.)

Xie Lian never gets to see him anymore, and he just wants to see his...

"...Stay with me?" He whispers, curling up on the floor, basking in the warmth from the fire.

For just a little longer?

"I won't leave you, your highness."

That's right.

Hong'er would never, ever leave him.

Just...

That didn't mean that someone else wouldn't take him away.

The Ghost King watches his prince sleep, tucked between his arms, stroking his fingers through his hair.

For so long, this was all Hua Cheng ever wanted.

To know that the crown prince was safe.

To hold him.

To protect him.

But now, they're here. Xie Lian is right here, and...

Hua Cheng presses his face into his god's hair, squeezing his eye shut.

'When I tried to die.'

Dying isn't so hard, actually.

Dying was among the easiest things that Hua Cheng has ever done.

Choices are harder.

Hua Cheng could make the choice to keep him here. Locked away from the world, where nothing could ever hurt him again.

Here, within Paradise Manor, nothing ever could.

But he can't do that.

There's a line between love and possession.

The division between being that of free will.

Hua Cheng would never rob Xie Lian of the ability to make his own choices. To walk his own path.

Just as he knows his god would do the same for him.

But it's hard, sometimes, to watch.

And he knows he should be grateful, because now, he has the chance to walk that path beside him.

But Hua Cheng was an awful child. A difficult teenager.

Now, he's a selfish man.

His arms tighten around the prince, holding him closer.

And he wants so much more.

His past, everything that he was, everything that Xie Lian remembers--all of it is locked away, as though sealed beneath an impenetrable layer of glass.

Hua Cheng can see it, but he cannot touch.

And he...

He wants his name.

He wants Xie Lian to call to him, and he wants to answer.

He wants Xie Lian to know that, never once, has he ever been truly alone.

The ghost king wants, and he wants, and he wants.

But for now, this...

He doesn't say 'I love you.'

His lips form the words, but he doesn't give them sound.

Because the crown prince wouldn't want to hear those words from him.

They're for Hong'er, not him.

For now, holding him will have to be enough.

Walking beside him will have to be enough.

Even if, in the not so far future, that means walking straight into hell.

When Xie Lian awakes several hours later, he sits up wth a gasp, his eyes blinking groggily.

"The lanterns!" He exclaims, only half awake, pressing his fist into his palm as he remembers.

There's a soft rumble against his back, and that's when Xie Lian realizes--

"What about them?"

He's practically lying on top of Hua Cheng.

The prince scrambles to the side, clearing his throat. "I forgot to thank you," he explains, hiding his expression. "...For the lanterns!"

And then, something else occurs to him--the missing piece of information that everyone had been wondering that night, watching the lanterns pour into the sky.

"...San Lang?"

"Yes?"

"...Where is Qiandeng temple?"

The ghost king's silence is...

Somewhat sheepish.

"...Here, in the city."

Xie Lian sits there for a moment in quiet shock.

...He has a temple...an ENTIRE temple...in Ghost City?

"...Could I see it?"

There's a pause, and Xie Lian wonders if, perhaps, he wasn't supposed to ask, but...

"That would be for the best, actually."

Xie Lian is curious about what that's supposed to mean--and why Hua Cheng seems...almost embarrassed, but before he can ask, he's being lifted up again.

"...San Lang," he mutters, lightly reprimanding him, "there's nothing wrong with my foot anymore..."

"I know, dianxia."

"Then why...?"

His answer comes in the form of rattling dice.

/Clack, clack!/

"I thought, until his highness changed clothes, he might want to avoid walking through the street like this."

Like...as in...

Right.

Xie Lian remembers now, his face hot.

He's still wearing what are very obviously Hua Cheng's robes.

Parading through the streets of Ghost City like that...would be pretty embarrassing, actually.

(Given the prior exposure the ghosts have had to him, especially.)

"Right," he clears his throat. "That makes sense."

The Ghost King steps through a small portal, though Xie Lian can only tell by the shift of the air, and the soft clinking of the bells on his boots.

When he sets him down again, he's careful, holding Xie Lian's hand until both of his feet are firmly planted on the ground.

The prince smiles gratefully, thanking him before he steps away, carefully feeling around.

There's a stillness to the air--and yet, even the softest sounds of his bare feet against polished marble manage to echo, conveying the size of the place, and it's method of construction.

Unlike most temples, there aren't sharply hewn steps leading to the entrances or the altar, only gently sloping inclines that feel natural under one's feet.

"...Was this place built...just for the festival?" Xie Lian questions, thinking certainly not.

How could it have been?

Hua Cheng is leaning against a pillar behind him, watching, his fingers twisting the end of his braid restlessly.

"...It was built many centuries ago," he explains softly. "It went unused until recently, but..."

Xie Lian lets out a sigh of relief.

Oh, good, it was already...

"...I'm sorry." Hua Cheng blurts out, and the god pauses, his fingertips outstretched towards the altar.

"...What?"

"It's not entirely suitable, dedicating a temple to his highness in a place as chaotic as this..."

"You mean Ghost City?" Xie Lian questions.

The Ghost King usually remembers to give a verbal answer, but in this case, he can barely do more than bow his head in shame.

After everything he's done, he's sorry for building Xie Lian three THOUSAND lanterns, and dedicating an entire TEMPLE to him...

...Because of location?

"...San Lang," Xie Lian tilts his head to the side, staring in his direction blindly. "I really like Ghost City."

One eye snaps up to look at him, watching his face intently.

"...You do?"

The prince smiles, nodding. "I was surprised at first, but...it's an exciting place."

'Exciting,' is one way of phrasing it, but...

"And I've been lots of places," Xie Lian adds. "Most of them didn't leave much of an impression on me, one way or the other. So..." He places a hand on the altar, his lips curving up into a small smile.

"I'm happy."

Obviously, Hua Cheng will probably rededicate it to another purpose eventually. Xie Lian hardly expects such a temple to be permanently dedicated to him, but...

A shrine in Puqi, a shrine in Gusu, and...a temple in Ghost City.

Xie Lian's three favorite places.

The calamity stands behind him, wide eyed and breathless.

(He's always breathless, but this time he couldn't take a breath, even if he wanted to.)

"...It's also good that you don't have any cushions for kneeling," Xie Lian adds, turning away, scratching his head bashfully.

He's never agreed with that sort of thing, anyway.

"Really, this place is amazing San Lang, I'm really..." Xie Lian pauses as a thought crosses his mind--something Shuo said, before.

That Hua Cheng was attending to 'renovations,' in Ghost City during their weeks apart.

...Was he...?

"It's not perfect, though." Hua Cheng speaks up. "It still needs an establishment plaque."

"...Oh," Xie Lian tilts his head, surprised. After all, that's one of the first things to include in a temple, but...

"Well, you said yourself, it was unused until recently! I'm sure San Lang will get around to it eventually when he--"

"Actually, I was hoping that gege could make one."

"...Me?" Xie Lian questions, surprised, then...somewhat hesitant. "Oh, San Lang...it's been ages since..."

Xie Lian can get by, his handwriting is still somewhat precise, but...

It's far, far less impressive than it used to be. If any of his calligraphy masters could see him now, they would faint with shame.

And in Xie Lian's defense, it's far more difficult when you can't...well...

"Gege's would be better than anything else," Hua Cheng states firmly, and Xie Lian can't help but raise an eyebrow.

"...What makes you so sure?"

"..."

"...San Lang--?"

"...I have poor handwriting."

Xie Lian pauses, open mouthed, and Hua Cheng grimaces.

"I know, it's--"

"It's really not such a big deal, San Lang..." Xie Lian shakes his head, "I'm just...surprised."

After all, Hua Cheng seems to be good ad just about, well...

Everything.

"I'm told it's more difficult if you don't learn when you're young," he shrugs.

Xie Lian remembers hearing something like that, actually.

Back when Mu Qing first started going to lessons with him, his instructors always insisted it would be impossible for the servant to catch up, but...

That didn't stop him, or even slow him down.

The prince smiles.

"Well, I'd be no good at it right now, but...if I ever lose the shackles, I'd be happy to teach you what I know."

Of course, that's a big 'if,' because Xie Lian doubts he'll ever lose them. But...

Hua Cheng smile. "When you do, I'll be happy to be in your care, your highness."

"..." Xie Lian's expression softens, and he nods.

The prince isn't accustomed in someone having such faith in him anymore. So readily, at that.

"...And I had another reason for bringing you here," Hua Cheng admits, prompting Xie Lian to arch an eyebrow.

"Oh? What?"

"Gege insisted on making his own clothes to return back, so..." Xie Lian is carefully led to an adjoining room in the temple, more private than the main hall, and awaiting him...

Is a loom.

A rather fine one, actually. Far more elegant than any the god has ever used.

"Oh, San Lang...thank you," Xie Lian has said that so many times today, the ghost king might just tire of hearing it, but...

He never seems to.

And, of course, there are countless options for thread, neatly organized and labeled by color for the god's choosing.

Of course, for most weavers, just making the appropriate amount of cloth would be a task that might take days, sometimes even weeks.

But for a god--one with eight centuries of practice, no less--Xie Lian can finish such a task in the span of an hour.

All with Hua Cheng sitting beside him, one leg propped up, chatting lazily. At one point, when Xie Lian needs to switch colors, he feels around for a knob to tie one thread to (so as not to lose track of which color he was working with) Hua Cheng reaches out, offering a finger.

He repeats the gesture several different times, with several different threads, until the bolt of fabric is complete, and Xie Lian is simply cutting and sewing the new garments together.

And he finds himself thinking, as he completes his work, and later, when Hua Cheng steps out of the chamber, giving him privacy to change...

It felt so natural, tying that thread off on his finger. There was an ease between them, as he worked.

Almost like they'd done it befor--

"FIRE!!!" The voices are shrieking in the distance, but even here, through the thick stone walls of the temple, Xie Lian can hear them clearly. "THERE'S A FIRE IN PARADISE MANOR!"

Xie Lian's stomach drops.

"...Another one?!" He exclaims, hurrying to finish getting dressed.

He hurries out into the main hall, adjusting his sleeves, and Hua Cheng, seeming completely unconcerned by the situation, stops to admire him.

This time, he opted for white inner robes with a deep blue outer layer, simple detailing--but rather elegant, like the rest of his work.

Normally, he doesn't work with such rich colors. Not only out of a feeling that airs of luxury no longer suit him--but also because he simply couldn't afford them.

Hua Cheng, however, didn't provide inexpensive thread--and all of the colors available were rather vivid.

"Oh, San Lang, I'm so sorry," the prince frets, hurrying towards the exit.

"...What are you sorry for?" He questions, seeming absolutely puzzled as he follows his god into the street.

Xie Lian wipes a hand down his face with a groan.

"Every time I visit, there's a fire!"

The calamity waves that off, seeming entirely unconcerned. "Nah, that isn't gege's fault. Besides, what's a little fire to me? But really, you don't even have any shoes--"

"I DON'T NEED ANY!"

Not when Hua Cheng's home is about to burn down for the second time in the same month!

Xie Lian proceeds to hurry through the streets, following the shouts of, 'Fire, fire!' and 'Hurry, come quick!'

But even as he approaches the front gates of Paradise Manor, such screams are already beginning to calm down, a crowd gathered around the entrance.

Xie Lian stops among them, sniffing the smoke in the air, whipping his head around with concern. "Is anyone hurt?!"

"Huh?" One of the ghosts pauses, stretching his arms over his head. "Ah, if it ain't the crown prince!"

There's a few respectful cries of greeting in response.

Which is...surprising.

Xie Lian doesn't usually get a warm response when he arrives on the scene of an unlucky situation. Especially not when people recognize him, well...

A god of misfortune.

"No need to worry your highness, it wasn't a big fire! We put it out already!"

Xie Lian lets out a low breath of relief, because from the sound of it--there wasn't too much damage.

He presses a hand against his chest, shoulders slumping for a moment as he catches his breath.

(Not that he was exhausted--but he'd been holding it with anxiety.)

"Oh, thank goodness!" He straightens up, clapping his hands together as he turns to face the crowd, bowing his head gratefully. "Good work, everyone!"

The crowd of ghosts pauses, not seeming...to know what to do with themselves, receiving praise and thanks.

A couple of them adjust rather quickly though, the first among them sniffing, rubbing his mustache, looking rather pleased with himself.

"It was NO TROUBLE, your highness, NO TROUBLE AT ALL!"

"SIMPLY DOIN' OUR DUTY!"

"..." Xie Lian smiles widely in return.

...Yes, of all places, Xie Lian is happy to have a temple here--in Ghost City.

But there's a different problem at hand now, with the fire out.

"...Do we know how it started?" He frowns, glancing in the direction of Paradise Manor with worry."

"Mmm! Seems like someone set it!"

"...Set it?" Xie Lian questions, rubbing his chin.

In that case, the motivation seems somewhat obvious--and all the more concerning.

To create a distraction.

...But what for?

Suddenly, another voice speaks up, this one familiar.

"My lord, the fetal spirit is missing."

...And there's the motivation. But who would want to steal a fetal spirit, and why?

Xie Lian turns his head at the familiar sound of Hua Cheng's footsteps, boots jingling as he walks.

"...San Lang, we should ask the guards what they saw."

The ghost king raises an eyebrow.

"What guards?"

Such a casual response gives Xie Lian pause, because...

...Is he really trying to imply that a place the size and scale of Paradise Manor is just...?

"...You don't have any?"

Hua Cheng shrugs, coming to a halt by the prince's side, crossing his arms.

"It isn't necessary." Xie Lian blinks, trying to wrap his head around the concept, and Hua Cheng seems to take mercy on him by explaining:

"You wouldn't have seen, dianxia--but every door on Paradise Manor has a seal on the inside."

He's right--Xie Lian had no idea.

"If anyone tries to leave with something that's mine," Hua Cheng shrugs, "they'll be locked inside automatically."

Xie Lian thinks that over, rubbing his chin. "...And you were the one who caught the fetal spirit, so technically..."

"It would have been in my possession, yes."

"That's...a very unique enchantment, San Lang."

Honestly, Xie Lian's never heard of something quite like it. Actually, it seems quite economical! An excellent way to save on secu--

"Ghosts are territorial by nature, your highness. Even so--"

Hua Cheng's gaze settles upon him.

"I've never allowed people to touch what's mine."

...security.

It's not as though it's out of character for Hua Cheng to say something like that. In fact, he said something along similar lines to Lang Qianqiu in the gambler's den, but...

Xie Lian's ears burn, all the same.

"So, ah..." Xie Lian clears his throat, trying to focus on the matter at hand. "That would mean the thief is, ah..."

"Still here, yes, likely hiding among the group who came to help with the fire." Hua Cheng turns his head, surveying them.

"Whichever one of you it was--step forward now."

No one does--and Xie Lian isn't surprised. He wouldn't eagerly admit to stealing from a ghost king either.

Hua Cheng has never seemed menacing to him, but...

To others, he can (apparently) seem rather frightening.

After giving it a moment, the calamity shrugs, looking towards the Waning Moon Officer. "Have them line up."

Because, little does the thief know--they were doomed to be caught from the start.

Once they're spread out, single file, one person can see the truth quite clearly.

Xie Lian's condition rarely, if ever comes in handy.

In this situation, however, he can see the cloud of dark, malicious energy, swirling malignantly among the other ghosts. And when he points--a familiar voice cries out in response.

"What?! You're pointin' the finger at me cause I yelled at you for cross dressing last time?!"

Hua Cheng's eye narrows, all while Xie Lian's widen with recognition.

Ah, Lan Chang.

"...Well, technically I wasn't cross dressing," Xie Lian corrects her, albeit awkwardly.

"I was actually a woman at that point in time, so..." Maybe that wasn't his usual form, but he wasn't cross dressing, no.

Lan Chang shrinks away from them both, her arms wrapped around her middle, hiding something beneath her dress.

"E-Either way, I'm sorry for what I said, I didn't mean any harm in it!" She protests, hunching over as she attempts to keep her hands tight around herself. "Would ya--would ya quit it?! Stop--stop messin' around!"

It's hard for Xie Lian to understand at first, but...

When he sees the dark cloud swirling and sparking irritably in her direction, he quickly begins to put it together.

First: that Lan Chang isn’t hiding the child under her dress, but rather…

Well, like Xie Lian before, it’s inside her.

And second…

“Lan Chang…”

The prince steps forward, his tone sympathetic, but…she doesn’t seem particularly comforted by it. “Are you the child’s mother?”

Lan Chang glares, trying to stumble backwards—but bumping into the ghost officer before she can get very far, glaring at his mask before giving up.

“…I know he might’ve caused trouble, but he just hadn’t had anyone to help him!” She exclaims, holding her middle tightly. “I’ll raise him better, I promise—he won’t bother anyone again!”

Xie Lian frowns, his expression turning sympathetic.

He doesn’t doubt that she means it.

That being said…

“Lan Chang, you need to let the child leave your body…”

It’s clear that she means to try to carry the child to term—something she wasn’t originally able to do, clearly—but it’s fruitless.

Hua Cheng even says as much.

“That thing is way stronger than you.”

Even as he explains, his tone is detached—all together uncaring, as though her decision means very little to him.

“Leave it that way, and it’ll rip you apart and escape on it’s own.”

Even with that warning, Lan Chang holds onto her stomach stubbornly—and Xie Lian is fretful.

“San Lang…”

Of course, while he is somewhat ambivalent to the woman’s fate—it only takes one concerned word from Xie Lian for him to intervene.

“Don’t worry, your highness.”

And of course, the calamity snaps his fingers—with every intention of forcing the spirit out.

Which he does—but his magic has another, unintended result.

There’s a flash of light. So sudden, so bright—even Xie Lian starts, prompting Hua Cheng to step in front of him protectively, but…

The god isn’t frightened, no—just confused.

Because that might…wasn’t demonic.

No, the aura of it…is clearly from the Heavens.

Hua Cheng stares, watching as that light fades—and once it does…he sees.

“…Your highness, it would seem that she’s in possession of a golden belt.”

Xie Lian’s eyes widen sharply.

“Ah.”

Most gods in the upper court have them.

Golden belts are often viewed as a symbol of prestige and status. Just to have one is an accomplishment. At the height of his power, Xie Lian had somewhere north of twenty, but he lost count.

They can’t be stolen, either. If not willingly given—they always return to the owner.

And to be gifted with such an item by a martial god…that really only has one meaning.

Xie Lian’s eyes widen with understanding, and the other ghosts don’t seem to be far behind him.

“Lan Chang, did some Heavenly Official leave you and your kid high and dry?!”

“SHUT UP!”

Lan Chang glares, clutching the squirming, screeching fetal spirit against her side--but before she can try to push him back into her body once again, Hua Cheng snaps his fingers, sealing the spirit inside of a jar.

The female ghost turns to him, pleading.

"M-My lord!"

She drops to her knees, her tone changing drastically.

Before, she was loud—combative, clearly not caring who she was speaking to.

Lan Chang doesn’t keep up that persona around Hua Cheng.

“Please, he—he’s just a child, and I’ve been looking for him for centuries, I—!”

There’s little sympathy to be found in his eyes.

“I’ve given you shelter in this city for many centuries, Lan Chang.”

Slowly, the ghost bows her head.

“You know what the rules are.”

She does, of course, like everyone else.

No one steals from a Ghost King without consequence.

Still, Hua Cheng doesn’t seem angry in that moment, no.

His gaze is focused on that golden belt, his expression unreadable—but clearly, he’s deep in thought.

Xie Lian, in any case, takes pity on her.

“…San Lang,” he murmurs, turning to the calamity. “I should take her.”

Hua Cheng grunts for a moment, so far away that he doesn’t even seem to process the request—which is startling, because he’s always listening to Xie Lian rather intently, but…

“…To the Heavens?”

The prince nods. “If the father is a god, then…”

He should take responsibility.

For Lan Chang and her child—there’s no excuse that either one of them should be left to suffer if the father has the means to help.

“And…you were the one who got the fetal spirit, but could I—?”

“You would have caught it eventually without my interference, dianxia.”

Hua Cheng shrugs, seeming to come out of whatever stupor he was momentarily pulled into. “You don’t need my permission—go on and take them both, if you’d like.”

Xie Lian nods gratefully, opening his mouth to order Ruoye to—

The prince pauses, his expression falling.

“…Your highness?” Hua Cheng looks to him, raising an eyebrow. “Is something wrong?”

Xie Lian groans, pressing his hand against the side of his neck, remembering now that…

“…I left Ruoye protecting the mistress in Mr. Mo’s house,” he admits, mortified.

“I can’t believe I did that…”

After all, leaving one’s own spiritual device lying around is horribly irresponsible. And it’s true, Xie Lian hadn’t planned on being swept off to Ghost City, but…

“I see,” Hua Cheng murmurs.

/Crack!/

With a snap of his fingers, a set of manacles appear around Lan Chang’s wrists, not so different from what he used on Lang Qianqiu in the gambler’s den, many nights before.

“That should hold her for dianxia in the meantime.”

Xie Lian nods gratefully. After all, she isn’t particularly powerful, he could have simply carried her—but this is far more convenient, and leaves Lan Chang a little dignity.

Not only that, but—

/Crack!/

There’s another snap of his fingers, and this time—something lands around Xie Lian’s neck.

The prince reaches up, surprised—to feel a choker sitting around his throat, covering his shackle.

(Without Ruoye or his usual bandages, it was left exposed.)

“…” Xie Lian smiles, his hands grasping his throat lightly for a moment before he lets go. “Thank you, San Lang.”

After all—Hua Cheng has expressed disagreement with the idea that Xie Lian should have to hide his shackles on the past, even if he did so subversively, but…

…He’s also seen that Xie Lian, as unbothered as he may seem…even in situations where it’s allowed, he prefers, for the most part, to keep them private.

“I’ll be sure to return it—”

“Don’t worry about it, diaxia,” he waves him off. “It’s nothing.”

Considering how expensive most of the items Hua Cheng owns are—Xie Lian finds himself very much doubting that. Still, he doesn’t protest for now.

“I’ll be going then,” Xie LIan sighs, turning to collect Lan Chang.

“Next time, I’ll be sure to host you properly.”

Host him properly?

He rescued Xie Lian from a lake, allowed the god to wear his clothes, fed him a meal, he even slept in Hua Cheng’s bed—

How much more hospitable could he have been?

“No, no—I’m the one who owes you,” Xie Lian shakes his head.

“The next time you come to Puqi shine, I’ll be sure to make you a proper meal!”

After all, he’s been observing Shuo in the kitchen for weeks now…he thinks he’s learned a thing or two.

Anyone else would look horrified by the prospect—but Hua Cheng smiles.

“I would be honored.”

The god and his newfound captives leave shortly thereafter, and Hua Cheng turns back in the direction of Paradise Manor, only…

To find Yin Yu standing before him, his expression…fretful.

“…Hua Chengzhu, there’s something that requires your attention.”

The ghost king arches an eyebrow.

“Yin Yu.”

“…Yes, sir?”

“You’ve worked for me for a long time.” Hua Cheng points out evenly.

“…I have,” the former official agrees quietly.

“Do you think, at this very moment, that I am willing to deal with whatever that might be?”

“No,” Yin Yu agrees. “I wouldn’t be bothering you with it, not unless—”

That’s when Hua Cheng hears it.

The faint commotion filtering down the street. Not the bad kind, like before, with people running and shouting for help from a fire.

No, this…is certainly excitement.

“Did you see him?!”

“In the gambler’s den!”

“I can’t believe he’s here!”

And all of these exclamations are paired with a name: one belonging to a ghost who hasn’t been seen in decades.

Not in public, anyway.

“Blackwater…”

Hua Cheng’s eye narrows.

“…He’s in Ghost City!”

“…He couldn’t wait?” Hua Cheng growls under his breath, his expression darkening.

After all, he was the one who showed up in the middle of the night demanding an audience—which Crimson Rain firmly denied.

The Ghost King’s god was in his bed, after all.

But apparently, the moment Xie Lian was no longer in the city—Blackwater seemed to decide that Hua Cheng had suddenly become ‘available.’

“…I could try to tell him—”

“No,” Hua Cheng mutters rolling his shoulders as he walks towards the gambler’s den. “I’ll deal with it.”

Of course, for obvious reasons, He Xuan hasn’t been seen in one of his publicly recognized forms in a significant amount of time.

When infiltrating the heavens, of course, his making the decision to lay low with his true identity became necessary.

Which makes his decision to resurface publicly…

Not a good sign.

The gambler’s den is as loud as ever, with ghosts and every other array of creature cackling as the struggle to capture a win—but it takes the mere sound of Crimson Rain’s footsteps to quiet the room.

/Clink!/

/Clink!/

The doors for the gambler’s den part for him without question, and at the head of the highest table…

Is He Xuan.

The skin he wears for ‘Ming Yi’ is youthful—handsome, in an almost boyish sort of way.

Not so different in age from the form Hua Cheng took when he appeared before Xie Lian on the ox cart near Puqi shrine.

But this form—

It’s as far removed from ‘Ming Yi’ as ‘San Lang’s’ appearance from his true form.

Far taller, broader, equal in height and build to Crimson Rain himself.

And still, this isn’t He Xuan’s true form.

Hua Cheng, even among ghosts, is lucky. After all—

Before he became a Ghost King, he ascended as a god. However briefly, even if he cast himself down immediately.

As a result, even in his true form—only the paleness of his pallor other minor features point to his transformation into a ghost.

That, and the scar that hides beneath his robes.

As a drowning victim,however…

He Xuan’s true form remains in such a state.

But not this one.

In this form, he still has the dark hair, and the golden eyes—but he’s older, in his late twenties. Square jawed, with a dangerous set to his smile as he leans back in his chair, clapping his hands slowly.

“Well, well…Crimson Rain Sought Flower finally has the time.”

Hua Cheng quirks an eyebrow, crossing his arms.

“I wouldn’t say I have the time,” he drawls. “Simply that you’ve made a public nuisance of yourself.”

The Water Demon shrugs, unbothered, rolling a glass of liquor against his palm.

“What do you want, He Xuan?”

“No need for the hostile tone,” the other ghost king smirks, setting his glass down. “I simply wanted to do a little sight seeing with a brother in arms.”

If one were to simply assume He Xuan’s personality was exactly that of his persona as ‘Ming Yi,’ they would be incorrect.

He Xuan is cold, yes. But not completely unsociable.

Ironically enough, it makes him even more compatible with his supposed enemy than he pretends to be.

“Sight seeing?” Hua Cheng questions flatly.

“I couldn’t help but notice how many ghost fires are around…”

He Xuan nods in the direction of paradise manor, where an entire courtyard full of them is waiting. “It’s been a long time since you made a trip, hasn’t it?”

In truth, Hua Cheng hasn’t ferried anyone since his god ascended to the Heavens for a third time.

“I thought so.”

The Water Demon rises from his seat, dark robes drifting around him as he walks.

“I’ll go with you, this time.”

Hua Cheng eyes him, wary.

He’s never asked him for such a thing before, but there can only be one reason: and a rather simple one.

There are very few places in the three realms where one can speak openly—without risk of being overheard by spies.

The Heavenly Emperor enjoys privacy in his private palace, of course. Even He Xuan hasn’t managed to penetrate so deep into their security.

Then, there’s the Kiln.

But that place has an effect on them both—and, if possible, they avoid returning.

Which leaves one final option: a place between.

A realm from which only one being has ever come and gone from as he pleases: Hua Cheng.

And He Xuan has never asked to be brought there.

Which means, whatever he wants to discuss with the ghost king…

Hua Cheng very much doubts that it’s something he actually wants to hear.

Still.

“…” The Ghost King turns on his heal, walking back towards the exit, his shoulders squared.

“Come on, then.”

Upon his arrival to the heavens, Xie Lian wastes little time, leading Lan Chang with one hand, holding the jar containing her child’s malicious spirit in the other, calling out in the general communication array—

‘I’m sorry everyone, but something serious has happened!’

Now, when Xie Lian first returned to the Heavens—very few people listened to what he had to say when he suddenly spoke up in the array.

After the cases on Mount Yu Jun, Banyue, and then Ghost City, however…

It’s guaranteed entertainment when the Crown Prince is involved.

‘Please, make your way to the Great Martial Hall!’

Drawn by either curiosity or a sense of duty, there are already several gods gathered by the time Xie Lian leads Lan Chang through the doors.

“Your highness!” Shi Qingxuan is the first to greet him.

‘Oh,’ Xie Lian thinks to himself, slightly surprised. ‘She’s still in her female form.’

Xie Lian isn’t disapproving of it—not in the way that her brother is—but he’s surprised by how often the Wind Master uses this shape.

“Where have you been? And—is that a ghost?!”

Lan Chang shrinks away, moving to stand behind Xie Lian as more and more of the gods present in the heavens filter into the room.

Jun Wu’s voice rings out next, and…

“…Ah, Xianle.”

He sounds…slightly odd. Unlike himself.

In Xie Lian’s experience, the emperor always sounds…relaxed. Like the calm surface of a lake.

he doesn’t necessarily sound upset now, but…

There’s an underlying tension, and Xie Lian can’t determine the source of it.

“What’s going on here?”

“Well…” Xie Lian scratches the side of his head, trying to decide how much he can (or should) explain about the incident, but…

“I was helping a group of locals with, ah…”

“…Your highness?” Mu Qing steps into the room, with the Water Master not far behind him, clearly looking to see where his sister rushed off to. “Who is that woman?”

“Well…” Xie Lian is still scratching his head. “I was tracking a…”

“Say,” Shi Qingxuan leans forward.

“Is there something going on with her stomach? It almost looks like…”

(Of course, it hasn’t completely flattened since Hua Cheng expelled the spirit from her body, there hasn’t been enough time.)

Just as she reaches over, the jar in Xie Lian’s hands rattles menacingly—as if angry to have someone approaching it’s mother—

And The Water Master’s fan closes with an irritated snap.

“QINGXUAN!” He barks, “What on earth are you doing?!”

Shi Qingxuan jumps back, startled.

“I was just—!”

“If a martial god drags a ghost into the great martial hall stating there’s an emergency, don’t just run up to her and try to touch her stomach!” Shi Wudu glares, gesturing for his sister to return to his side. “Use some common sense!”

“She’s clearly chained up, gege…” The Wind Master grumbles. Still, she walks over to stand beside her brother, her arms crossed. “I’m not a child.”

“And you still haven’t outgrown the urge to touch everything you find interesting.”

Ah, Pei has arrived.

Xie Lian clears his throat, speaking up—

“This is Lan Chang. I was tasked with tracking down a fetal spirit attacking pregnant mortals…and, as it turns out, she’s the mother.”

“Even so,” Ling Wen speaks up, entering the room—still in his male form. “Why bring her here?”

“Well…” Xie Lian reaches into his sleeve, procuring the golden belt—and with it, he hears several gasps of shock from around the room. “She had this.”

Naturally, it doesn’t take long for everyone else to come to the same conclusion that Xie Lian did.

It’s not a crime for a god to be intimate with a mortal woman. It’s not even unheard of for gods to sire children with mortals. On even rarer occasions, goddesses have made similar mishaps.

But for it to escalate to a situation like this…

That would be a first.

“…In that case, she should just point out who the father is,” Feng Xin shrugs, stopping to stand beside Mu Qing, who…

Isn’t looking at him, staring straight ahead.

Across the room, Lan Chang grits her teeth, her face downturned.

“…I agree,” Jun Wu murmurs, slowly pulling his gaze from the Crown Prince of Xianle, turning it to the woman he brought with him. “Go on and point him out.”

In the face of an order from the emperor, Lan Chang can hardly refuse.

She sucks in a deep breath, squirming.

“It’s…uh…” Everyone waits, expectant—

“…YOU!”

Dead silence follows, and Xie Lian glances around, waiting for someone to respond to the accusation, after all, it’s rather shocking, but…

No one does.

“Uh…” Shi Qingxuan clears her throat. “Your highness…”

Xie Lian blinks, looking in the direction of her voice. “Yes?”

“She’s…pointing at…” The Wind Master trails off, glaring at the others, who seem to be biting back laughter.

Slowly, after a moment—it begins to down on him, and he feels a little faint from the shock.

“…ME?!”

Xie Lian flinches away, shocked. “That’s not even possible!”

“Sure it is!” Lan Chang glares, pointing her finger at him stubbornly. “It’s YOU! It’s definitely you!”

“Then I think we’re witnessing a miracle,” Shi Wudu rolls his eyes, fanning himself.

“The first virgin to father a son. What a sight.”

(Xie Lian can’t even speak, swaying on his feet from the shock.)

“…Virgin?!” Lan Chang scoffs, crossing her arms. “How would ya even know?! He could be faking!”

“He was tested with magic not even two days ago!”

Shi Qingxuan huffs, placing her hands on her hips as she speaks up in his defense.

“Why—I bet his highness hasn’t even held someone’s hand before!”

Xie Lian opens his mouth to agree with her, but…ah…

Actually, he’s held Hua Cheng’s hand several times by now.

“…” The prince bows his head, fiddling with his fingers, and Shi Qingxuan…

She clears her throat, standing a little taller.

“Well! He’s CERTAINLY NEVER KISSED ANYONE BEF—” She stops, noticing Xie Lian quickly making an ‘X’ motion with his arms, pleading with her to stop.

“…Oh…uh…he’s probably never shared a b—no? Uh…” She rounds back on Lan Chang, pointing. “Well—YOU DON’T SEEM LIKE HIS TYPE!”

On that, Xie Lian nods weakly with agreement.

Lan Chang balks—but she’s not as offended by that as she probably should be, given the implication.

“…Fine, fine, I got it mixed up—it’s—it’s HIM!” This time, her finger points directly at…

Ling Wen.

“…” Pei barks out a laugh, clapping a hand over his rips. “LING WEN! You sly dog!”

“…It’s not funny,” The civil god glares, crossing his arms.

Even Shi Wudu is snickering, hiding it behind his fan. “Such a heartbreaker…”

Ling Wen’s gaze snaps to him, clearly betrayed. “Shui-Xiong, even you?!”

“I can’t believe you won’t take responsibility, aiyah…”

“You—!”

Lan Chang looks around, confused, and Xie Lian takes pity.

“…That’s the Civil Goddess, Ling Wen. He’s just in his male form for the mid autumn festival.”

“…” Lan Chang’s finger slowly curls inward. “…Oh.” She mutters, shaking herself out of it, and—

Naturally, she points to the man right beside him.

“YOU!”

Now, no one immediately laughs or calls it unrealistic—but still.

“See,” Ling Wen crosses his arms with a sigh, “If you had accused him first, everyone would have believed it.”

Pei gawks in his friend’s direction, aghast. “HAH?!”

“I don’t know…” The Water Master shrugs.

“I still kind of believe it.”

Pei rounds on him, “No you DON’T!”

“I mean…you have a past…”

“Yes,” the emperor speaks up, and Shi Wudu’s amused smile immediately disappears.

Something that Pei notices, his eyebrow raising.

“Pei does have quite a history, to be sure.”

“…It wasn’t me, your majesty,” the general clears his throat, turning around to face him. “Regardless of how many women I’ve been with—I do keep track of them. If I had fathered a child, and a thing such as this happened…I would know.”

His tone has become somewhat…distant.

Jun Wu arches an eyebrow. “…You mean to say you’ve never given a golden belt to a mortal, then?”

“…I have,” Pei admits, and whatever may have remained of the Water Master’s amused expression completely fades. “Which is how I know she’s lying—because it wasn’t her.”

It’s clear from the atmosphere in the room that most people don’t know whether or not to believe him, and…

“…He’s telling the truth,” Xie Lian, the last person anyone expected, speaks up quietly.

“…Your highness?” Feng Xin pauses, surprised. “How would you know that?”

“The woman in question,” Xie Lian explains. “Ming Guang was looking for her during the war in Xianle—he mentioned it to me before entering my territory.” He turns towards Pei, “Am I guessing correctly?”

“…Yes,” Pei agrees, his expression guarded. “It was her.”

Xie Lian looks to Mu Qing, who has been uncharacteristically quiet—

(And the prince knows, it’s because of the way they left things the night before.)

“She’s the woman I asked you about, back then. The one who…”

The Martial God’s eye widens, remembering.

“…Oh,” Mu Qing frowns, looking away. His hair is back to it’s normal color—jet black, trailing down his shoulders. “…I suppose it is true, then.”

Feng Xin glances over at him, raising an eyebrow, but…he seems relieved, just to see Mu Qing here, speaking normally.

He never was able to get Mu Qing to let him in that night. And even the day after, the martial god wouldn’t let Feng Xin anywhere near him.

“…” Lan Chang looks back and forth between the two, and when she looks at Mu Qing…

She grits her teeth.

“It was YOU, then!”

“…” Mu Qing stares her down, crossing his arms, and Xie Lian sighs, shaking his head.

“That can’t be right either, Lan Chang—but why not just be honest? I’m sure, whoever it is, he’ll…”

“It IS him!” She claims, stomping her foot stubbornly. “You can’t prove it isn’t!”

“…Mu Qing’s cultivation method is the same as mine,” Xie Lian explains. “It forbids any kind of…carnal pleasures, and we’ve both been cultivating continuously since we were teenagers.”

Meaning in Mu Qing’s case—there’s simply no window of opportunity.

Of course—Xie Lian, having the demeanor that he does, can pull off such a statement rather well. Old rumors from very long ago tainted his image for years—but once they were dispelled, people quickly adjusted.

After all, the crown prince acts like someone with few indulgences.

However, Mu Qing…

People are aware of his cultivation method, certainly—but few actually believe he’s still practicing it. Most assume he’s switched to something else entirely.

(Mu Qing and Feng Xin have both always been baffled as to why everyone assumes that.)

“…This is ridiculous,” the Water Master groans, seeming to be in a foul mood now, compared to when he was teasing Ling Wen and Pei Ming over their potential fatherhood. “Qingxuan, lets go.”

His sister frowns, her lower lip jutting out. “But I wanna see who it is!”

Shi Wudu rolls his eyes, throwing his hands up. “She isn’t going to say, and I doubt the father is even in this room, anyway.”

“How can you know?!”

“Because she’s accused just about everyone aside from you, me, Nan Yang, and the emperor.”

He doesn’t have to explain why it isn’t Jun Wu, that goes without saying. If Jun Wu wished to have someone in his bed, he has royalty, scholars, and gods and goddesses at his disposal.

And, given that he’s near omniscient, if he was the father—he would know.

“If Nan Yang recognized her and there was a possibility of his being the father—he would have said so.”

Absolutely no one can argue with that logic, and Feng Xin nods, seeming to agree.

“It can’t be you, because if this woman knew you for any amount of time—she would have recognized you in this form.”

(After all, Shi Qingxuan uses it so often—anyone close to the Wind Master knows it.)

“Wait—is she not a goddess?!”

“See? And it obviously wasn’t me.”

“How is that obvious?!”

Shi Wudu shrugs, holding his fan aloft with one hand, examining his nails with the other.

“I have standards.”

THAT finally manages to draw a squawk of indignation from Lan Chang, and Ling Wen speaks over her.

“if it’s no one here, then who is it?”

The Water Master doesn’t look up from his cuticles.

“Ming Yi isn’t here.”

Shi Qingxuan glares, her hands on her hips. “It ISN’T Ming Yi!”

“Oh, and how do you know?!”

“I just DO!” She huffs. “I’d sooner believe it was Mu Qing!”

The Martial God jumps, sending a frown Shi Qingxuan’s way. “Don’t drag me back into it!”

“Well she hasn’t pointed the finger at anyone else since you, has she?!”

“It should be easy enough to disprove,” Ling Wen cuts the Shi brothers off.

“The Emperor simply has to bring out Yan Zhen again.”

The mere mention of that sword makes Mu Qing stiffen, his expression growing slightly pale—

“Enough,” Jun Wu murmurs, holding up a hand. “The Water Master is right, this is clearly going nowhere.”

He looks over at Lan Chang, who shrinks slightly under his gaze. “If she isn’t going to be forthcoming, and the child is a danger…we’ll simply have to keep her here until the truth can be determined.”

Of course, Lan Chang has committed no crime—but the child has.

Keeping her here while they determine what the do seems far less cruel than separating the two again.

And now, with the debate dying down, Shi Qingxuan leans close to whisper in Xie Lian’s ear, green eyes bright with curiosity.

“Your highness—where did you get that choker?”

“Oh?” Xie Lian blinks, tilting his chin down. “Well—it’s actually a little embarrassing—I left Ruoye behind when I was chasing the fetal spirit, and I had nothing to cover my shackle with, so…San Lang gave this to me.”

Shi Qingxuan leans closer with a nod—

“I thought so.”

Xie Lian raises an eyebrow. “You did?”

Just as they’re discussing it, Feng Xin finally glances over, seeming to notice the choker for the first time.

“Your highness! You should take that off!”

The prince glances over at him, baffled. “What are you talking about?”

His former guard glares at the necklace, his brow pinching with suspicion. “It’s probably cursed! Or maybe he’ll use it to track you!”

“Huh?” Xie Lian frowns, reaching up to brush his fingertips over the jewelry. “San Lang wouldn’t give me anything dangerous.”

And when he does—he understands how Shi Qingxuan realized rather quickly where the choker came from.

The choker itself is made from black ribbon—but dangling from the front, just at the base of his throat…

It’s a butterfly.

A silver one, from the feel of the metal.

And, to Xie Lian’s chagrin, there are clearly gemstones set into the details along the wings.

What was the ghost king thinking, saying this was nothing?

The prince is going to have to give it back, it really is too much…

“And San Lang can see me whenever he likes.”

Xie Lian concludes with a shrug. “There’s no need to track me.”

“…Well, I think it’s beautiful, your highness!” The Wind Master Shrugs. “It’s wonderful that you have such a generous friend!”

Feng Xin chokes at the words ‘generous’ and ‘friend,’ but Xie Lian smiles.

“Thank you!”

From the other end of the room, the Water Master rolls his eyes—tired of all the spectacle.

Instead, he turns his attentions.

“Xuan Zhen.”

Mu Qing glances in his direction, surprised. “Yes, Lord Water Master?”

Shi Wudu turns to leave. “I need to speak with you.”

Of course, he clearly means privately—and with the way he exits the room, there’s the clear presumption that Mu Qing will follow.

Which the Martial God does. After all—after Jun Wu, few are higher in the Heavenly Court than Shi Wudu.

His requests are given a certain weight.

Xie Lian chats with Shi Qingxuan amicably, offering small details about his trip to ghost city.

(Not the embarrassing ones, anyway.)

Part of him wishes he’d had the chance to speak with Mu Qing and Feng Xin, given how they left things, but…

It isn’t the right time.

Lan Chang watched the scene unfolding before her, averting her eyes from the only truly familiar face, clutching the jar containing her son against her chest.

“…It’s alright,” she whispers, following the guards as they escort her from the martial hall.

They don’t drag her or treat her roughly. The cage she is being escorted to is a comfortable one. And still…

When Heavenly Officials watch her from the streets, it’s with only one thought—

‘Monster.’

Lan Chang bows her head, holding her son close.

He isn’t a monster.

To be a beautiful woman is to learn cruelty from a young age.

Lan Chang has seen many, many monsters over the course of her existence. Mortal and undead.

They wear many shapes and disguises.

Her son is not a monster—he never had the chance to be one thing or the other.

You can’t be a monster, in the end, if you never had a choice.

/CLACK! CLACK!/

Each rattle of the dice clicks loudly against the emptiness of the space, echo spiraling upward, higher, higher, disappearing into the endless heights of the ceiling above.

Two Ghost Kings stand in a hall of the Dead, surrounded only by the soft flickers of light from the ghost fires around them.

“So, when your soul dispersed…” Blackwater glances around, his arms crossed. “This is where you ended up.”

Hua Cheng doesn’t reply.

He stares at a stone table. One that has gone unused for centuries, accompanying benches unoccupied.

A set of black dice sitting on the surface, identical to his own.

He remembers waking up here, as Wu Ming—to a rattle that would become so familiar.

/CLACK!/

/CLACK!/

‘…Oh, the little pup is finally waking up.’

‘Which way do you think he’s gonna go, Xiang?!’

The ghost king tears his gaze away, finally, his tone unfeeling.

“You don’t remember? We saw it on the…”

The Kiln.

When they used Mount Tonglu to look forward—most of those memories, Hua Cheng lost when they left the confines of the Kiln itself, but…

His eyes turn toward the black door, looming at the far end of the hall.

He remembers seeing that door swinging wide open.

That memory is crystal clear.

A gaunt young man, broken and bleeding. A cultivator, claiming to go by the name ‘Lan.’

“…I lost most of it,” He Xuan admits.

But it isn’t the black door that draws his attention, no.

No, he looks to the other end of the hall.

He walks to the red door, standing in stark contrast to the darkness.

Hands clasped behind his back, his chin tilted up.

“…What are we doing here, He Xuan?” Hua Cheng questions, crossing his arms.

Blackwater doesn’t look back at him, staring at that door.

“I came to make my final report on the Heavenly Court,” the calamity murmurs, his eyes unmoving.

Hua Cheng raises an eyebrow at the word ‘final.’

“…What is it?”

“It’s as we originally suspected,” He Xuan explains. “A group of lazy, privileged, incompetent individuals.”

One ghost fire lands lazily against Hua Cheng’s shoulder. The ghost king does little to disturb it, allowing it to rest there.

“That isn’t surprising.”

“No,” He Xuan agrees.

“…But it’s by design.”

No one can control who does or does not ascend. That is up to fate.

But one can certainly exert influence over who lasts in the heavenly court.

Over who stays on for years, and who fades on into memory.

“The three most powerful among them—known as the three tumors—by and large perform most of the critical work involved in running the Heavens.”

That much isn’t new. The three tumors aren’t particularly popular among their peers—but the adoration they receive from mortals has been well earned.

“For whatever reason, the emperor has been systematically undermining Ming Guang for the better part of a century.”

Even Hua Cheng has noticed.

Ming Guang is among the only gods the calamity can remember from his childhood that remains in power—but recently, cracks have appeared in his foundations.

"Ling Wen has always been regarded for her efficiency," Blackwater's voice is low, recounting details like they're something distant, far removed from him. "But she's been given such a volume of work, even she is beginning to make mistakes."

Mistakes that prompt hints of doubt.

"But there's more." He Xuan braces himself, "When it comes to the crown prince of Xianle."

Hua Cheng's attention is a heavy thing--suddenly sharpening, all of it settling on the Water Demon's shoulders at ounce.

"...What about him?"

"In your honest estimation--just how powerful was he, during his first ascension?"

The Calamity falls silent, thinking.

Of course, from his perspective back then--Xie Lian had been omnipotent. And with his own biases, it takes a moment to truly consider it.

"...About as powerful as Pei is now," the Ghost King finally replies.

After only seventeen years of cultivation, compared to Pei's centuries.

"The emperor clearly desires to keep a friendship with the prince," He Xuan murmurs. "But he remains in shackles."

Using Yin Yu, the two of them have done quite a bit of research on Cursed Shackles in the last century.

To the best of their knowledge, they can only be removed through two methods:

First, the spell caster removes them.

Second, being exposed to high levels of spiritual power.

And even through their experimentation, they were never even able to place a crack in Yin Yu's shackle--implying that the amount of energy required must be enormous.

"...The shackle in his eyes was fractured," Hua Cheng murmurs, his eyes narrowing with thought.

"In Gusu, yes."

Fighting the demon Wen Jiao.

"...In all honesty," He Xuan tilts his head back, peering into the endless darkness of the ceiling, trying to find a light at the end--and finding none.

"Do you think a savage ranked demon could crack a cursed shackle?"

No.

Hua Cheng doesn't.

And if he was that powerful--Xie Lian, with all of his spiritual power sealed, would not have been able to kill him with physical prowess alone.

"Which leaves two possibilities," Blackwater holds up his hand.

"First," he lifts a finger, "there's a powerful entity in the ghost realm that neither one of us is aware of, and they were the one behind Wen Jiao."

Which seems unlikely.

"Or second, it was the emperor. Holding Pei's oldest stronghold captive, and whittling away at his power."

Which, if Jun Wu was already targeting Pei...

Hua Cheng's eye widens with understanding.

...It makes sense.

"Jun Wu's targeting of Pei has only worsened since Gusu. And after the mid autumn festival...it's become clear: something is coming."

Naturally, after hearing something so ominous--Hua Cheng stiffens.

"...What?"

"I don't know," Blackwater admits. "But he's consolidating his power. And if it's enough to make Jun Wu worry--you should be preparing as well."

"...If you haven't figured it out, why are you telling me now?" Hua Cheng raises an eyebrow. "Why here? ...And why would this be your final report?"

He Xuan's shoulders square themselves, his posture becoming firm.

"Consider the warning a matter of professional courtesy," the calamity mutters. "Because the prince will become a target, sooner or later. I'm letting you know in advance."

It's no small favor.

After all--Hua Cheng has been tracking him, but...

What He Xuan is implying—that kind of threat means that Crimson Rain will have to remain by or very close to the prince’s side for the foreseeable future.

“And, with Ming Yi dead…” He Xuan grits his teeth, his tone prickling with anger.

The other ghost king glares.

“That wasn’t Shuo’s fault.”

If anything, he spared He Xuan from being exposed immediately.

“I didn’t say I blamed him,” Blackwater mutters, his shoulders hunching. “But I can’t keep up the charade for much longer with him gone.”

Once again—that’s the difference between them.

If Hua Cheng desired to pose as a Heavenly Official—as someone who has actually ascended—it wouldn’t be difficult for him. He’s capable of wielding Heavenly power.

(Hence why he’s able to hear prayers, and gain strength from them.)

He Xuan, however, never ascended.

His ability to pose convincingly as a god was based on his holding the real Ming Yi prisoner. Using his spiritual power—and his worshippers—to shroud himself in a heavenly glow.

And now…

“I can keep it up for a few more weeks, at most.”

At which point, he’ll be left with two choices:

To reveal the truth behind ‘Ming Yi,’ or fake his own demise.

“…You couldn’t just take up another disguise?” Hua Cheng questions.

After all—He Xuan is a far better actor than any one else Hua Cheng has ever met.

Man or woman, young or old. Whatever role he needs to be—he’s never struggled with playing it off.

Still, Blackwater shakes his head.

“…No,” he mutters, his voice…

…Empty.

“It will be too late for that.”

Hua Cheng’s stomach begins to sink.

Of all places, He Xuan asked to be brought here.

The younger ghost king reaches out, pressing his palm flat against the red door, staring down at ancient, worn carvings in the wood.

“…No more games, Hua Cheng,” his voice carries through the dark—chilling. “It’s time.”

There’s no need for explanation or specification.

With He Xuan, there has only ever been one thing on his mind. One goal.

One end to this story, a narrative he never asked to be written into.

Hua Cheng stares.

“…Isn’t that playing right into the emperor’s hands?”

He Xuan’s fingers dig into the wood, finding it harsh and unforgiving under his touch.

Maybe.

“…I don’t care,” he mutters, lowering his hand. “If I wait longer, I won’t have a chance.”

“How could you know that?”

“…He received over seven hundred lanterns, Hua Cheng.”

Barely short of the emperor's count. All from individual temples and worshippers, scattered throughout the continent.

Not simply because Hua Cheng was feeling affectionate, and wanted to make a grand gesture.

That's power.

"He's facing a third calamity soon."

Meaning that--absent interference, Shi Wudu is about to become even more powerful than he was before.

So powerful that, if He Xuan doesn't kill him now--he won't be able to afterwards.

"...If that's true, then won't Jun Wu--?"

"Attack him?! Yes!" He Xuan slams his fist against the door. "But if he's going to be struck down, why shouldn't it be me?! Haven't I earned that?!"

Crimson Rain proposes no argument, falling silent in the face of a rare show of emotion from the other calamity.

He Xuan has been facing away from him for the entirety of the conversation, never turning his eyes away from the door that lies before him.

"...And what about the Wind Master, then?" Hua Cheng asks quietly, watching as Blackwater finally flinches.

"What will become of her?"

He Xuan takes a moment to respond--and when he does, his voice is low. Tightly controlled.

"...I know I made a mistake with Shi Qingxuan," he mutters.

That's more than he could admit a month ago, anyway.

"I won't kill her."

In fact, he'll even give her a chance.

To make amends for her part in it. To make the right choice, once she knows the truth.

It's more of an opportunity than anyone has ever spared him.

"And what about after?"

He Xuan squeezes his eyes shut.

It's always that question.

That stupid, inescapable fucking question.

'What's left of you after, He Sheng?'

"...I don't care," he mutters, his eyes narrowed into slits, the redness of the door blurring in front of him. "Maybe I'll walk through this door when it's finished. After I fight your war with you--I haven't forgotten my promise."

Hua Cheng knows that, in the end, if Blackwater is set on this--he can't stop him.

And it won't interfere with Hua Cheng's own plans. He has no compelling reason to stop him.

But still.

"...It won't bring them back, He Xuan."

Blackwater's shoulders hunch sharply.

He knows.

There are some moments when he still can't understand it.

That, after everything He Zhong and Qin Meirong suffered through--when they came to this door, they walked straight in.

They moved on.

They're at peace.

But He Xuan can't.

He can't move on.

He can't rest.

He can't live.

"Well," Blackwater's voice lowers down to a snarl--and when he finally turns his head to look back at Hua Cheng...

His eyes burn hatefully.

"...Aren't you a fucking hypocrite."

Crimson Rain narrows his gaze in response.

"When you were Wu Ming, you felt it all the time, didn't you? The blade in your heart." He Xuan turns around, his hands balled into fists.

Of course, he did.

When you die, all wounds heal.

Except, that is, for the blow that killed you.

Hong'er felt it, drifting behind his god in the dark, a ghost fire flickering in the night.

Felt it in that temple, screaming with rage and agony as he watched Bai Wuxiang rip his love apart.

That blade was still in Wu Ming's heart when he watched Qi Rong suffer the same fate.

It was cutting him when he stood on the streets of Lang-er Bay, turning Fangxin on himself, and with it, the curse of ten thousand souls.

Even when Hua Cheng woke up here, to the rattling of dice and the crows of two gamblers, he still felt that wound.

It didn't go away until he forged E'Ming.

Until the sky filled with light, and Hua Cheng stood at a point where two paths diverged, forced to choose.

"...I still feel it." He Xuan glares, pressing a clawed hand against his chest. "Every second of every day."

His form flickers, and for just a moment--Hua Cheng sees the truth beneath a handsome mask.

The bloodshot eyes, ruptured blood vessels in the cheeks and throat, spidery dark veins stretched over pale, waxen skin.

"Not just in my lungs," the calamity rasps. "But the weight."

The weight of all of that water at the bottom of the sea, crushing down on him.

Dragging him down. Squeezing every breath, every passing glimpse of happiness away from him.

He still feels the fatigue.

The endless exhaustion.

And oh god, then there's the emptiness.

A ravenous, stripping sort of hunger. One that robs a man of his senses, with only one thought:

To feel something, anything, other than that void.

He Xuan has spent four centuries, desperately struggling to fill it.

With food. Liquor. Women.

Nothing ever satisfies.

"...And I won't ascend, even if I get my fate back." He Xuan mutters, staring ahead, his eyes somewhere between rage and numbness.

Shi Qingxuan already ascended, after all.

That opportunity has been used up.

"So, I will /always/ feel it." He spits out the words.

"What is dying, compared to that?!" He shakes his head vehemently, golden earrings clinking together. "What is ANYTHING I could do to them, compared to what they've taken from me?!"

Nothing. It's comparable.

Everything is, when a person is faced with four centuries of drowning.

"And you sit here, and you preach to me like some paragon of forgiveness," He Xuan sneers, "When you're called the bane of the heavens--and for what?! Because they INSULTED the prince?! They told rumors about him?!"

"Careful," Hua Cheng cautions him coldly.

"NO!"

He Xuan swats a ghost fire away from him, his eyes burning in the dark.

"My sister--she took her own life to escape being raped."

Hua Cheng's expression remains unchanged.

Unreadable.

"My fiancé was beaten to death before she could suffer the same fate."

That's the face he sees every night, when he manages to steal even an ounce of sleep.

Qin Meirong, blood bubbling past her lips, fading away in his arms.

Trying to reassure He Sheng, rather than being afraid for herself.

Telling him it would be alright.

"...But you cut every single one of those gods down in battle, didn't you? Burned their temples to the ground. All because they called the crown prince false names." He Xuan shakes his head. "I would never call you wrong for that. So don't you DARE preach FORGIVENESS to me!"

"I'm not asking you to forgive him, He Xuan." Hua Cheng shakes his head. "But there's a cost to what you plan to do."

After all--Hua Cheng didn't kill those officials out of revenge.

He killed them because they broke their end of a bargain.

Revenge, in it's purest form, only breeds more resentment. And with that, comes curses.

Fai and Xiang had every right to feel hatred, even in death.

But it was their inability to let it go that spurred on a curse.

One that Hua Cheng inadvertently made worse, lengthening their lives the way he did. Even if he only had good intentions.

And that's the thing about curses.

You never know where they'll land, or who will get hurt.

In the end, it's rarely the person you were aiming for.

"I don't care," He Xuan shakes his head. "I have nothing left to lose, Hua Cheng. Even if I get dispersed--I don't care."

Hua Cheng actually believes that. But still.

"I wouldn't assume that you have nothing to lose," he mutters.

And oh, Blackwater finds that laughable.

"That's easy for you to say," he mutters, looking Hua Cheng over. "It's so easy for you, to play the charade."

And everyone calls He Xuan the talented actor.

"After all, I wasn't so lucky as you," Blackwater sneers. "To fall in love with someone who can't die."

Hua Cheng couldn't call that a blessing--and he knows Xie Lian wouldn't either.

He's glad to have his god alive and breathing, but...

It would actually be far easier to protect Xie Lian, if the prince was a ghost.

"I'm sure having that--having ONE thing to hold onto, helped."

He Xuan bows his head, his shoulders trembling.

Grief gnaws at him like a starving dog, trying to get at the bit of marrow left inside a bone.

Persistent, stinging. Slowly breaking him down.

"But he took EVERYTHING FROM ME!"

His roar rattles the walls in it's ferocity.

The break in concentration hits him then, and with it--comes that weight.

The crushing, ever present weight of black waters, dragging him down.

It forces He Xuan down to his hands and knees, taking desperate gasps of air--and they don't help.

He shouldn't need to breathe.

But still, he always tries. Desperately tries to cough that water up and out of his lungs.

It always remains.

"...You can think I'm a monster," he rasps, clutching at his throat. "I don't care."

He doesn't care.

He doesn't care.

He doesn't /care./

"If it makes you feel better to pretend you're not, then fine," he shakes his head.

After all, he wants to be loved by his god. To be seen as something better than what they both are. He Xuan can't fault him for that.

"...But I don't have a choice."

That was taken from him.

"..." Gently, Hua Cheng nudges the ghost fire from his shoulder, kneeling down before his fellow calamity, elbows resting on his knees.

"No," he murmurs, his tone even. "You aren't a monster, He Sheng."

The mention of his childhood name makes Blackwater tremble.

Hua Cheng's eye has grown impossibly dark, glimmering under the lights from the fires around.

"But I am."

Blackwater's gaze flickers up, and when he makes eye contact with the older ghost...

Hua Cheng's gaze seems bottomless.

A wide, gaping void. Vast in its frigidity.

"That's the difference between you, and me." He explains calmly. "You say you don't have a choice. But that isn't true. If you didn't, you would be an animal. You're not."

He Xuan was a good man, once. Warped now by pain and hopelessness.

But beneath, there's human decency.

Hua Cheng possesses no such thing.

"You talk as though we're the same, or our suffering can be weighed against one other on a scale, and the winner gets to determine what justice means." Hua Cheng arches an eyebrow. "Is that what you want to do?"

He Xuan clenches his teeth.

"That conversation won't go well for you."

They both know one another's lives, to a certain extent.

How He Xuan was born into a relatively poor family, but a loving one. Up until his fate was switched, life was kind to him.

Life has never been kind to Hua Cheng.

"I've seen--"

"No," Hua Cheng cuts him off, shaking his head. "You haven't seen it all."

Blackwater's eyes widen slightly at the implication.

In the Kiln, their very souls blurred, tearing through each other's memories. But...

Could Hua Cheng have kept something hidden?

"No one gets to see what happened to my mother," Crimson Rain explains with such detachment. His voice calm, his gaze remote. "Not you. Not even Zhao Beitong."

That memory remains locked in the very pits of his soul.

"But you guessed, I remember."

It's difficult to explain, the feeling that goes through one's mind, in the Kiln.

Having someone walking through the halls of your memories, putting moments together like broken shards of glass.

Hua Cheng's earliest memories were like a crime scene. Scattered, hidden.

One moment, his mother was alive--and Hong'er was a normal, if not slightly ill behaved child.

In the next, she was gone, and the boy who remained...

Was utterly unrecognizable.

"It was her husband," Hua Cheng explains. "She ran, to hide me from him."

But not Hong'er's father.

His father was a soldier, and he loved his mother very much.

Up until this morning, those were the only two things Hua Cheng knew about the man.

Until he saw the golden belt hidden underneath Lan Chang's robes.

As for how that confrontation is going in the Heavens--he wouldn't know. He's been too preoccupied with He Xuan to watch.

"And just as the light was fading from her eyes," he continues, "he grabbed me by the chin, and he made me watch."

'You did this.'

That was what he said.

'This is what happens to anyone who protects a little mongrel like you.'

And he wasn't wrong.

That was all Hong'er could think, watching his god endure the same thing, sacrificed upon his own altar.

"...I stopped feeling certain things, after that." Hua Cheng admits.

"I still don't."

And in the years that followed--even if he never hurt anyone, simply because he was too weak to do so much as even defend himself--

That didn't mean that Hua Cheng wasn't a monster.

That didn't mean he wouldn't have done horrible things, if he could.

"And after I became Hua Cheng..." The Ghost King explains, never breaking eye contact, "I found him."

Old, miserable, ill-contented. Married twice over since then, with one daughter.

"The things I did to him are beyond your imagining, even now."

Because there are certain things that only monsters do.

Things that other people just don't think about.

"His wife fainted. His daughter fled to the room, and I let her." Hua Cheng tilts his head. "That seemed fair. But not the his parents."

Hua Cheng made them watch.

He allowed them to beg for their son's life, and he pretended to consider. Just to watch that last glimmer of hope in his eyes.

And then, he laughed.

All the while, they never understood why the ghost king was torturing him.

Because Hua Cheng couldn't say his name.

"You've been speaking as though there's some layer of human cruelty beyond my understanding. That I'm telling you these things because I simply can't comprehend the scope of your pain."

The ghost king shrugs.

"I understood those things centuries before you were born."

And once you allow yourself to take joy in someone else's suffering, you gain a taste for it.

For most people, a nasty temper is like an angry dog lurking underneath one's patience, waiting to bite.

Hua Cheng's wrath is like a tiger--and it's always there.

It's always hungry.

Lurking in the corner of every room, watching him with an opportunistic gaze.

It won't ever leave.

Hua Cheng had to learn to stop looking at it.

To stop feeding it.

"...I know you," Hua Cheng mutters. "There are limits to the things that you are willing to do."

And it is those very limits that will haunt He Xuan, when he inevitably takes this too far.

When he does something that he can't take back.

Because He Xuan was a good man, once.

But Hua Cheng isn't.

Hua Cheng has never once, in all of his life, been a good man.

He was a miserable child. A vengeful teenager.

"...The only things I won't do, are the things I can't justify to the god I pray to."

Not because of some moral judgment he's made, no.

Simply because, above all else--

Hua Cheng is a selfish man.

He cannot allow himself to become something Xie Lian wouldn't forgive him for.

Hua Cheng was a monster. Every moment of every day, he could become one.

And each time, he makes the choice not to.

In the end, monsters don't exist.

Only humans who make monstrous choices.

He Xuan finally breaks away from Hua Cheng's gaze, bowing his head.

"...I have done everything you ever asked of me," the calamity whispers, his shoulders trembling. "Everything I promised I would do--I've delivered."

He isn't wrong.

"You made me a promise, Hua Cheng."

The older calamity sighs, rising to his feet.

He knows he did.

Centuries ago. A bargain struck, bound by blood and fate.

Hua Cheng won't break it now.

"...I won't get in your way," he mutters, swallowing down the bitter taste in his mouth. "But if he gets involved..."

If Xie Lian gets involved, Hua Cheng will assist him. He Xuan knows that.

"...Just don't actively work against me," He Xuan replies. "I think that's fair."

Oh, Hua Cheng doubts that.

They have ventured beyond fairness, at this point--wandering deep into muddled, black waters.

In the heavens, things remain similarly unclear.

“…So,” Mu Qing steps into the Water Master’s sitting room, arching an eyebrow. “You wanted to speak to me?”

Shi Wudu takes a seat on one of the sofas, setting his fan aside. “I did.”

“About what, exactly?”

“…” The water god pushes his hair behind his ears, glancing away from him. “…Something’s wrong with me,” he mutters.

Mu Qing stares, baffled. “What?”

“I have my third heavenly calamity coming up, and something is wrong with me. Medically.” Shi Wudu repeats, irritated.

“Isn’t that your area of expertise?”

“It is.” Mu Qing agrees slowly, confused, because…

Physically, the water master looks absolutely fine.

“Then are you going to examine me, or not?”

“Alright, alright…” the martial god grumbles, rolling his sleeves up to the elbow.

“Undress from the waist up.”

Shi Wudu complies, shrugging out of the sleeves of his robes, allowing them to pool around his waist, pushing his hair behind his neck.

“Have you encountered anything strange, lately?”

After all, he’s a god.

Unlike mortals, he isn’t susceptible to the same illnesses and injuries. Not in a way that could seriously harm him.

When a god takes ill, it’s usually because of exposure to demonic energy.

Shi Wudu shakes his head.

“Not at all.”

Mu Qing performs a basic exam initially, and…

There really isn’t anything immediately concerning.

His color is good—along with his lungs and his pulse. The only thing worth noting is weight loss, since the last time Mu Qing examined the Water Master.

He still isn’t underweight—his body is toned, visibly healthy, so…

“…What are your symptoms, exactly?” Mu Qing questions, leaning back to glance over the water god’s shoulder.

“My appetite is gone,” Shi Wudu mutters with shrug.

That explains the weight loss, then.

“I get these terrible headaches, I can barely sleep, and when I do…”

Mu Qing waits, expecting him to say something about horrible nightmares or anything of the like, but—

“…I can’t remember any of it.”

“Any of what?”

“Dreaming.”

Which is bizarre—for him, at least.

Shi Wudu has always been able to remember his dreams. Often in vivid detail—and sometimes, to his own detriment.

“Is there anything else?”

The Water Master falls silent, hesitant, and Mu Qing leans back, crossing his arms.

“All of this is confidential, Lord Water Master.”

“…” Shi Wudu crosses his arms, looking pointedly in the opposite direction—as proud as ever. To the point where Mu Qing assumes that he isn’t going to answer—

“I get these…attacks.” He mutters, his shoulders hunching in.

Well. That’s wonderfully vague.

“…Attacks?”

The water master nods, keeping his face turned away.

“I used to get them back when I was mortal, but recently…they’ve come back.”

Which explains why Shi Wudu assumes the issue is medical, Mu Qing supposes.

“…What are these attacks like?”

There’s still hesitation on Shi Wudu’s end, but…

He sighs.

“They always come out of nowhere—and when they do, I can’t breathe,” he mutters. “My heart beats rapidly. If it gets bad enough, I’ll get sick to my stomach.”

The more Mu Qing listens, the more he…

“…Lord Water Master,” he isn’t usually so tactful—but that’s a choice. “Has anything…upsetting happened to you recently?”

Mu Qing is capable of handling a conversation delicately, when he desires to.

“…What?” Shi Wudu asks flatly, finally looking back at him.

“Well…” The martial god thinks it over, struggling to phrase this in a way that won’t conflict with the Water Master’s pride. “I was a soldier, as you know—and sometimes, after the war…many of my comrades experienced attacks very similar to that.”

“…No,” Shi Wudu finally answers, shaking his head. “I’m not a soldier, and I’ve never been in any war. Especially not recently.”

“It can happen to people who aren’t soldiers.” Mu Qing disagrees quietly.

His own mother had them, when he was young.

His little sister, too.

Feng Xin got them, after his father died. There would be days when Xie Lian was off, arguing with the heavens, and Feng Xin…there was no battle, no present danger—

But he couldn’t stop shaking.

Holding Mu Qing so tightly, the young general had felt like his ribs would break.

When Mu Qing said as much, Feng Xin would whisper that he was sorry.

He would apologize, and hold Mu Qing even tighter. Like he was worried that, if he let Mu Qing go for even a moment—the world might end.

“…So, if something’s happened, even if you might not think it was serious enough to warrant that—”

“No,” the water master mutters, looking away. “There’s been nothing like that.”

Somehow, Mu Qing…

He doesn’t believe him.

“But…” Shi Wudu pulls his robes back up.

“…If my attacks were like theirs—is there a treatment for that?”

Of course, therein lies the problem.

“Not that I know of,” Mu Qing admits. “Most of the guys I served with would self medicate. Alcohol. Gambling. Women. That sort of thing. Whether or not that works…”

Then it occurs to him.

“Honestly, Pei has more experience with this sort of thing than I do,” Mu Qing offers, standing up. “You might want to ask—”

“Thank you,” Shi Wudu cuts him off coldly. “I’ll remember that. I apologize for wasting your time.”

He did no such thing, but…

“…Oh, and by the way,” The Water Master glances up in the middle of adjusting his hair, carefully working each strand back into a perfectly placed style. “The emperor seems to have taken an interest in you recently.”

Mu Qing shrugs, looking away “I think he was just concerned.”

“…Be careful with that,” the Water Master advices, checking his appearance in the mirror.

Mu Qing glances back at him, adjusting his sleeves. “What?”

“The emperor’s attention,” Shi Wudu shrugs, his tone blasé. “His concern. People tend to forget what he is.”

“…What he is?”

The Water Master levels him with a pointed stare.

“A man.” He explains flatly. “If he’s being kind to you—or anyone—it’s not out of the kindness of his heart. He wants something.” Shi Wudu looks him up and down. “I thought you were cynical enough to understand that.”

It isn’t exactly a glowing review of Jun Wu’s character. Particularly not coming from his…

Mu Qing’s eyes drift back down to the Water Master, widening slightly.

…His favorite among all of the Heavenly Court.

“…I am,” the martial god finally replies.

“But thank you for the warning, Lord Water Master.”

He leaves not long after that—but now, he finds himself…

Wondering if the relationship between the Emperor and The Water Master was…something far different from what he originally understood.

And what that means, if true.

Xie Lian descends from the Heavens, feeling no worse for wear—which is a first, after his first three missions since his third ascension. Each one left him more exhausted than the last.

But, well…

(He slept very well, the night before.)

Still, he can’t help but feel guilty.

Xie Lian left to get food for the shrine—and now, he’s returning empty handed.

He has no doubt that Lang Qianqiu and Ren Song wouldn’t have allowed Guzi and Lang Ying to starve in the meantime, but still.

The children are in his care—it’s his responsibility.

Xie Lian still has the gold pieces that Hua Cheng gave him in exchange for the garment he took—but he hasn’t actually bought any food yet.

Which he feels even worse about, considering how he spent the evening stuffing his face with mantou and…

Being pampered by a ghost king.

He silently chides himself, walking up the path to Puqi shrine. It’s difficult to remember sometimes—he’s so accustomed to being alone, he forgets about other people.

He has to be more mindful of that.

The prince is so lost in thought—he really doesn’t hear it coming.

Not until something slams into his chest—hard enough to knock him over, sending him sprawling in the grass.

And of course, being the trained warrior that he is—Xie Lian sits up immediately, prepared to fight back, but…

“…Ruoye?”

The spiritual devise trembles, rubbing underneath Xie Lian’s chin, and the prince sighs sympathetically, reaching down to pet the silk bandage. “I’m so sorry,” he mutters. “I didn’t mean to leave you behind back there. But…how did you make it back?”

Just as he asks that, Xie Lian hears faint wailing in the distance, his ears perking.

“…C’mon, gege, stop!”

Coming from a rather familiar voice.

“I’m gonna DIE! I don’t deserve this! I DIDN’T EVEN START IT!”

A slow smile spreads across the prince’s face as he stands back up.

He hurries back up the path, far more eager than he was before, calling out—

“San Lang?”

After a moment, a lazy voice comes back in response—

“Welcome back, dianxia.”

And then there’s Shuo’s voice, whining. “Your highness! Tell him I didn’t do anything! I…I HELPED!”

A soft laugh slips from Xie Lian’s lips, and his eyebrows raise. “…Are you alright? You make it sound like he’s torturing you.”

“Oh,” Hua Cheng’s voice is distinctly sarcastic. “I really am, gege. He’s suffering.”

“I AM!” Shuo flails his arms. “All the blood is in my HEAD!”

He’s being held upside down, the back of his head bumping against the small of Hua Cheng’s back, his legs held mercilessly over the Ghost King’s shoulders.

“Stop acting like you’re going to have a stroke.”

“Maybe I AM!”

“You’re dead.”

“SO?!”

Hua Cheng rolls his eyes, leaning against the doorframe of the shrine.

He’s still in his older form—eyepatch in place—but his hair is pulled up into a lopsided ponytail, not so different from when he appeared in the beginning, calling himself ‘San Lang.’

His clothes are the same as back then too—with his red outer robes tied around his waist.

“San Lang, are you bullying him?”

The ghost king’s eyebrows raise innocently. “Oh, no, dianxia. I never bully.”

(Even Xie Lian knows that not to be true, he’s been Hua Cheng’s victim.)

“Gege, Hua Chengzhu—c’mon, this is SO embarrassing, PUT ME DOWN! I MADE HIM AN ATTIC!”

“You made yourself a bedroom,” Hua Cheng shrugs, a piece of weed grass between his teeth. “You know how to get down.”

Shuo slams his head against Hua Cheng’s back, incensed. “I’m not FIVE!”

“Could’ve fooled me,” The ghost king counters lazily. One of the farmers glances over at the scene, walking down the road leading past the shrine—and Hua Cheng shrugs, calling over.

“He’s at that age, y’know?”

Xie Lian bites back a snort.

After all—Hua Cheng does look very much like a young father, disciplining an unruly son.

“Oh, I understand!” The farmer calls back with an easy going smile.

Shuo glares at the interior of the shrine, his hair dangling in his face.

“My oldest was a handful during that phase!”

“I’m almost eight centuries old!” Shuo whispers furiously.

Hua Cheng just smiles, nodding his head politely as the villager disappears down the path.

Xie Lian bites his lip, his expression brimming with amusement as he leans against the railing of the steps.

“Does he do this to you a lot?”

Shuo glares, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s his way of bullying me into doing whatever he wants.”

“I don’t bully,” Hua Cheng corrects him easily, watching Xie Lian with a lopsided smile, repeating:

“He knows how to get down.”

“Meaning?” Xie Lian questions, raising an eyebrow.

“…WISDOM!” Shuo shouts, leaving the prince absolutely baffled, but Hua Cheng just snickers, rolling the piece of wheat grass between his teeth.

“You’ve already tried that one.”

“HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO REMEMBER?!”

“Is it…uh…that one poem you like?! The one with the mountain?!”

Xie Lian perks up.

Hua Cheng likes poetry?

“Nope.”

“…What is he trying to guess?”

Shuo sulks, blowing his hair out of his face. “He’ll only put me down if I do what he wants, or…”

He groans, frustrated.

“I have to guess what his tattoo says!”

Xie Lian’s eyebrows raise. “…San Lang, you have a tattoo?”

“Mmhm,” The ghost king hums in agreement, letting go of one of Shuo’s ankles, reaching out so the prince can feel it.

His sleeves have both been rolled up to the elbow, revealing toned, muscular forearms—and when Xie Lian brushes his fingertips over the ghost king’s skin, he can feel the raised points where it’s been marked with ink.

“These…are characters?” He mutters, raising an eyebrow.

Only in the point of view of an insane person, surely.

Thankfully, neither one of them can see just how sheepish Hua Cheng’s expression has become.

“…I got it when I was very young,” he explains with a shrug.

“Well, uh…I like it!” Xie Lian smiles up at him.

“It’s got style!”

“I’ve been trying to guess what it says for eight hundred years,” Shuo grumbles. “And I’ve NEVER gotten it!”

(Implying that Hua Cheng does this to him quite often.)

Xie Lian can’t blame him—the characters are completely illegible.

“You say this as if you don’t have another option,” Hua Cheng muses, the bells on his boots clinking softly as he crosses his legs, easily holding the ghost upside down with one hand around his ankle.

“…” Shuo huffs, clearing his throat. “…Your highness?”

Xie Lian looks up.

“…I’m really sorry for messing up your shrine,” he mumbles, his tone low and sulking. “Even if was made out of balsa wood—OW!” He whines when Hua Cheng bounces him sharply, his head thunking against his back again.

“Good apologies don’t have qualifiers attached, brat.”

"Alright, ALRIGHT!" Shuo grumbles, rubbing the back of his head. "I'm just SORRY, okay?!"

"And?"

Xie Lian really wants to say it's enough, that the poor demon as already suffered enough, but--

"...Are there any improvements I can help with that aren't self serving?"

"Oh...I don't know if the attic was self serving..." Xie Lian smiles, tilting his head. "I can make use of it, even when you aren't staying here!"

"Please dianxia," he mumbles, going limp in Hua Cheng's hold in surrender. "He won't let me go until you come up with something..."

"San Lang..."

"Don't take pity on him, gege," Hua Cheng shakes his head. "He's playing on your sympathies."

"Am not!"

"Ah..." Xie Lian rubs his chin, thinking. "Well, he already built a second level, and unless the foundations were built out, there really isn't..."

"Don't worry about that," the ghost king assures him. "He can handle whatever you need."

Ah, well...in that case...

"...A separate sleeping area on the lower floor might be nice?" Xie Lian offers. "But if that's too much work--"

"It's not," Hua Cheng glances over his shoulder.

"Isn't that right?"

"...No..." Shuo grumbles. "It's no trouble at all..."

With that, he's dropped back down--landing on his palms, performing a brief handstand before rolling to his feet, rubbing his back.

"Tyrant..." He grumbles, to which Hua Cheng smirks.

"What was that?"

Shuo clears his throat, clasping his hands in front of him innocently, "Thank you Hua Chengzhu, for this AMAZING lesson in personal accountability! I'm so grateful!" He adds a sarcastic little spin, for good measure.

"You're welcome."

"Die..." He grumbles, walking off.

"Hmm?" Xie Lian turns his head in Shuo's direction, frowning slightly. "Where are you going?"

He just got back, after all.

"To get some stone, I'll be back..."

He can conjure the wood out of thin air, but the other building materials...require heavy lifting.

And Hua Cheng wasn't offering, implying that Shuo has to go and get it himself.

"...You're a bit hard on him, San Lang," Xie Lian murmurs--but there's little bite to it. "Did you come all the way here just to discipline him?"

"Mmm..." The calamity shrugs. "And to bring Ruoye."

That draws out the smile Xie Lian's been biting back since he arrived. "Thank you for doing that," he reaches over, squeezing Hua Cheng's forearm again. "I still can't believe I left him..."

"I'm the one who stole you away," the ghost king shrugs. "I didn't mind."

There's something about the way he says 'stole you away' that makes Xie Lian's train of thought go sideways, though he couldn't say way.

"Did you just come for those reasons, or...?"

Hua Cheng raises an eyebrow. "Am I being a nuisance?"

"No!" Xie Lian exclaims immediately.

Then, realizing how vehemently he denied it, his ears grow slightly pink. "No, I was very happy to find you here," he admits. "I was only wondering how long San Lang planned on staying."

"Hmm..." Hua Cheng thinks it over, rubbing his chin.

"I thought I might like some time away from Ghost City, and gege offered to host me--so I thought I would stay here a while."

(Hua Cheng's heart leaps slightly, when he watches the way Xie Lian's expression brightens.)

"Would that be alright with you, your highness?"

Xie Lian smiles--widely and honestly, nodding quickly with agreement. "Mmhm!"

Then, for the first time since he arrived--he remembers.

"Oh--where are Qi Rong and Lang Qianqiu?"

The children are exactly where they're supposed to be, playing inside, but those two...

"Ah," Hua Cheng waves that off. "You think I only disciplined Shuo?"

"..." Xie Lian's smile doesn't fade--he's too pleased to be upset, really, but...

"...Are they here?"

"Yes, dianxia."

"Are they daruma dolls?"

"As always, his highness is an excellent at guessing."

Xie Lian knows he should probably demand that Hua Cheng let them both go right now, but...

The ghost king seems to be having the same thought, tilting his head to the side. "Gege isn't bothered by it?"

"Well..." The prince scratches his head.

"...They're both a bit of a handful, and I've been away from the village for a little while, so I have a few errands to run. I couldn't ask you to deal with them while I'm gone..." Xie Lian explains.

/Clink!/

Hua Cheng's boots jingle softly as he steps away from the doorframe.

There's such an ease to him as he approaches the prince, reaching out and carefully tucking a lock of hair behind Xie Lian's ear. A touch Xie Lian enjoys, until he remembers...

Hua Cheng did that last night...right before he...

'That isn't the way I kiss a person.'

/Ba-bump./

...Why is he thinking of that right now? That was just--

Hua Cheng pulls his hand back, flicking away a leaf that had been caught in the god's hair.

"Can I accompany gege on these errands?"

A leaf! Just a leaf, that's all. He...

Xie Lian clears his throat.

"Ah...of course, San Lang--if you want to. I can't imagine it'll be very interesting, but--"

"Then gege can lead the way."

When he speaks again, it's in the same voice he used when he first appeared on the ox cart--and, Xie Lian suspects, the same younger form.

Hua Cheng did say he should 'lead the way,' but the moment Xie Lian picks up his bag, the Ghost King insists on carrying it for him--and on Xie Lian holding his elbow, using Hua Cheng to steady himself when he encounters an unexpected dip in the road.

The villagers recognize him as they pass by, and a few call over, delighted.

"Well, if it ain't Xiao Hua!"

"You finally came back from your parents house, huh?"

"What a strapping young man!"

A smile tugs at Xie Lian's lips, his hand tightening slightly on Hua Cheng's arm.

It reminds him of, years ago, in the very same village, doing this with Hong'er. How fond the local farmers were of him.

For being so diligent, looking after the local blind taoist.

Usually, remembering something like that makes him ache, but...

Not when he's with San Lang.

When he's with him, the memory feels...more sweet than it is bitter, even if there's always a hint of both.

But there's something else now, tugging at his mind. A memory so old, so far back in his recollection, he struggles to bring it back, but...

There was something the farmers in the village said back then, about Hong'er...and it feels important--but Xie Lian can only remember his response.

'No.'

'My Hong'er was a soldier.'

But...what were they asking him? And why is Xie Lian thinking about that now?

He--?

"Gege..." Hua Cheng speaks up when they're in the market, holding a basket as Xie Lian begins to buy food, along with other odds and ends for the shrine. "I've been wondering about something."

"Oh?" Xie Lian turns his chin in Hua Cheng's direction, tilting his head back.

"Back when I took you from the Heavens, and Lang Qianqiu chased after us..."

Ah, yes. The memory of Lang Qianqiu walking in on them in a...easily misunderstood position is still a little embarrassing, but Xie Lian doesn't react to that.

"Yes?"

"Did he actually propose to you?"

Xie Lian's smile freezes in place, the wind knocking out of his chest.

"I...what?"

"He said...right before everything happened...that he proposed," Hua Cheng shrugs. "And you didn't deny that was the case."

"Ah, well..." Xie Lian quickly looks away, rubbing his neck.

"I mean...he didn't explicitly...say anything like that," The prince mutters, suddenly feeling...very sheepish. "But it was pretty clearly a confession of sorts..."

"But then An Le's men attacked the banquet, and you had to leave in the middle of the conversation."

"Exactly," Xie Lian nods, relieved that there's really nothing else to say about it--

"But how did he say it?"

The prince nearly drops the potatoes in his hands, just choosing randomly before hurriedly dropping one of them in the basket.

"What do you mean?"

"Well," Hua Cheng walks beside him as they move to the next stall, "he clearly seemed to think of it as a proposal, but you found it less so. I'm simply wondering exactly what he said."

"Ah..." Xie Lian purses his lips. "To tease him, or me?"

“I would never.”

Maybe both, then.

Xie Lian sighs, rolling the chain around his neck between his fingers.

“…Well, he gave me flowers,” the prince starts, adding— “No one in the palace knew I was blind, so he thought I could see them—San Lang, are you laughing?!”

“No,” Hua Cheng lies smoothly, even as his shoulders are trembling with amusement.

It’s just so easy to see the scene unfolding in his mind’s eye—because, knowing Xie Lian, even if he had no idea what the flowers looked like, he would still say—

“I’m sure they were beautiful!”

“I’m sure, I’m sure…” Hua Cheng agrees lightly, waiting for Xie Lian to continue.

“…” The prince swallows hard, turning his attention to a display of fresh onions, making sure the ones he selects are fresh. “Well…then he went on about how I should stay with him, in Yong’an…”

Hua Cheng seems to have gotten his fill of laughing now, at least, listening to Xie Lian quietly.

“…And about how he would protect me, and never let anyone hurt me…”

“…Gege…” Hua Cheng shakes his head, wiping a hand down his forehead.

“What?”

“…That couldn’t more clearly be a proposal.”

Xie Lian stops, an onion in each hand, his jaw going slack.”Huh? Just because of the ‘protecting me’ part? By that standard, Feng Xin proposed to me when I was seven.”

Hua Cheng doesn’t seem amused by the comparison.

Seeming to conclude that the onions in his hands are up to par—Xie Lian pays for them, dropping them both in the basket.

“Besides, most of the proposals I’ve received have been far more direct,” he adds offhandedly, not seeing the way the ghost king does a full blown doubletake.

“…Just how many proposals have you received?”

Xie Lian scrunches up his nose, thinking. “Oh…I’m not sure I kept track. Most of them were when I was mortal, or during my first ascension. At least once a week back then…maybe more.”

Hua Cheng is slightly more pale than usual.

“Oh!” Xie Lian recalls, holding up a finger. “There was actually an interesting one. See, after the war between Xuli and Yushi, followed by Ming Guang’s ascension—there were a lot of petty warlords trying to follow his example.”

Though none matched Pei in his conquests.

“Well—there was one—I don’t remember his name anymore, but he was causing a bit of trouble in Xianle. Raiding villages, stealing horses, that sort of thing.”

Xie Lian’s father had been aware—but simply hadn’t thought him more than a local nuisance.

“Well, eventually he got a pretty big ego—and eventually, he got the idea in his head that my parents were lying about my gender.”

Hua Cheng’s eyebrows shoot up. “Really? I’ve never heard of such an accusation against his highness.”

“Well, he was the only one who ever made it.”

Xie Liam explains. “He thought that no one would ever speak of a man’s beauty the way everyone spoke of mine.”

(He does feel a little sheepish, recounting that detail.)

“And he thought, given the fact that my mother couldn’t bear more children after me, they simply lied.”

It wasn’t entirely unheard of, particularly not then, for families without a male heir to raise their eldest daughter as a son—in order to avoid losing political face.

“So, he rode upon the capital, planning to take the city hostage and demand my hand in marriage.”

There are many surprising things about the story—but the first of them to Hua Cheng is the fact that he hasn’t heard it before.

“…I’m assuming he wasn’t successful?”

“Oh, no—father was furious, he wanted to unleash the entire army on him and his men—but I didn’t want that.”

Xie Lian had felt it would be unfair for the warlord’s men to die because of their master’s arrogance—so he came up with another proposal.

“See, back in the old days—maybe you remember—you could win someone’s hand in marriage through combat.”

“…So you made him such an offer?”

Xie Lian nods. “I sent a messenger to tell him that, if he could defeat my champion in single combat, I would marry him. After he agreed, he was escorted to the palace. I think my father was expecting me to appoint Feng Xin, but…”

Hua Cheng glances his way. “But?”

The prince shrugs. “I fought him myself.”

And obviously, the man lost—rather badly, too.

“I’m sure it was a crushing defeat for him.”

“Yes,” Xie Lian agrees. “I actually felt sorry for him at the time, but looking back on it…I feel like I let him off too easily.”

Hua Cheng tilts his head to the side, surprised. “That isn’t like you to say, your highness.”

“…I know,” Xie Lian frowns, stepping back from the vegetable stall. “But while that man might have doubted my gender—he knew very well that I was fourteen, and he was a grown man.”

Hua Cheng’s expression immediately darkens. “…I see. What did you end up doing with him, then?”

“During the battle, I cut off his sword wielding hand,” Xie Lian shrugs. “After that, he couldn’t be much of a threat to anyone else. Then, he was imprisoned.”

But still.

It disturbs Xie Lian at times, having lived so long, remembering the things that were treated as…normal, back then.

Now, eight centuries after the fact—the thought that a grown man had viewed him that way—as many other adults did, to be honest—is disturbing.

But at the time…

Xie Lian was the ‘illustrious crown prince.’ A national treasure of Xianle.

One moment, he was a child—and the next, he was an adored public figure.

But now, when he remembers the stories of his beauty, the poems and songs that were written in his name…

Those accounts largely came from poets and bards. Grown men, in most cases—speaking of Xie Lian’s looks from the ages of fourteen to seventeen.

Now, part of him knows that it wasn’t appropriate.

And still…it’s difficult to completely condemn it.

Those years were the height of his power and popularity. And it’s a heady thing, to have the entire world adore you.

To discount all of that as inappropriate attention towards a child would cast one of the few happy times of his life in a…less than favorable light.

“The point is—compared to what I had seen before…Lang Qianqiu’s proposal wasn’t as direct.” He concludes.

But all of this talk of the old days, crossing blades with an old warlord—it brings something else to Xie Lian’s mind. Something he meant to ask about.

Well, actually, Xie Lian meant to ask the question ages ago, though not necessarily to Hua Cheng—but he seems knowledgeable enough.

“Can I ask you about something, San Lang?”

“Dianxia can ask me about anything he likes,” the ghost king replies easily.

“…What’s missionary?”

Xie Lian nearly stumbles when Hua Cheng comes to a sudden halt, his back ramrod strength.

“San Lang? Are you alright?”

It takes him so long to answer, Xie Lian is becoming genuinely worried, until…

“Where did you come across that term, your highness?”

His voice is a little odd—Xie Lian has never heard him use that tone before.

Slightly hoarse.

“…Well, back on Mount Yu Jun, Feng Xin and Mu Qing were arguing…I think it had something to do with Feng Xin punching trees…” the prince muses, rubbing his chin.

Then he catches himself, clearing his throat. “I mean—Nan Feng and Fu Yao, their deputies. Slip of the tongue—”

“Yes, yes,” Hua Cheng waves off Xie Lian’s meager attempts at protecting his friend’s dignity. “And that term came up?”

“…” Xie Lian nods, wondering why Hua Cheng is reacting so…sharply. “Well, Fu Yao said Nan Feng acted like a man who only knew how to do ‘missionary,’ but I had never heard of that fighting style before.”

And he never got the chance to ask either of his friends about it either.

“…It’s not…” Hua Cheng starts, then stops, struggling to formulate his answer—all while Xie Lian stares up at him blindly, his gaze trusting.

“Not what?”

“…Not…A fighting style, gege,” Hu Cheng explains carefully.

Xie Lian blinks, baffled.

“Then what could it be?”

Hua Cheng is quiet for several moments, weighing his options.

"It's intimate by nature," the Ghost King explains quietly, and Xie Lian's eyebrows knit together, wondering what to make of that.

Intimate.

"...As in?"

Hua Cheng bites back a sigh.

"It's sexual, your highness."

Oh.

Xie Lian's eyes widen.

/Oh./

"...It...it is?" He frowns, his face slowly heating up. "...But why would Mu--Fu Yao be saying something like that to Nan Feng? Surely in that context, it must mean..."

Hua Cheng looks at the sky, long suffering.

"I'm fairly sure that's what he meant, your highness."

Xie Lian stares, and Hua Cheng takes a deep breath.

"He was saying that he was boring."

The prince stops walking, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

"Boring?" He repeats, tapping his chin.

"But isn't that sort of thing...the opposite of boring?"

Xie Lian's never been interested in it, not really. But on the two occasions that he /has/ thought about that kind of intimacy...

It wasn't boring.

"If you're with someone who is good at it, it isn't." Hua Cheng agrees.

'Oh,' Xie Lian thinks to himself with a frown, 'I'd probably be very boring, then.'

And it's not that the prince actually wants to know--after all, he isn't going to be in that sort of situation any time soon--but--

He doesn't like coming off as ignorant.

Especially not when Mu Qing and Feng Xin are apparently talking about...

Besides, Hua Cheng is his friend. A dear friend. If Xie Lian can't ask him, then who else?

"So, when he said Nan Feng was like a man who 'only does missionary,' how did that mean he was boring?"

"..."

Xie Lian waits patiently, knowing that Hua Cheng wouldn't laugh at him for asking something like that.

And he doesn't, but...it does take him a moment to reply.

"...It's the most common position used during love making, your highness," he explains carefully.

Is 'love making' the word that Hua Cheng would typically use? No. Absolutely not.

Is he going to say any other moniker in his god's presence?

No.

Absolutely fucking not.

"It refers to the partners being face to face."

"Ah..." Xie Lian nods, taking that in.

As one might expect, the prince has somewhat of a nuanced view of the concept of sexual intimacy.

Xie Lian is aware of the existence of sex, obviously. He doesn't find the concept of other people being intimate with one another upsetting or embarrassing.

It's only when he conceptualizes /himself/ in such situations that he feels ashamed, or wrong.

His cultivation creates a wonderful excuse, but in reality--it wasn't that Xie Lian never wanted to be with someone.

Rather, he was taught to be ashamed of what and who he wanted.

So, in this situation, discussing the details as they would relate to two other people--that isn't embarrassing, or uncomfortable for him.

Actually, it creates a rare opportunity in which he doesn't mind discussing the subject.

And poor Hua Cheng, in this case, is knowledgable.

“…And face to face is boring?”

“Ah…” Hua Cheng clears his throat, helping Xie Lian step up and over a small foot bridge on their trek back to the shrine. “Every position has upsides and downsides. I think that one is just considered boring because it’s standard.”

And because of the issue with the angle, particularly with two men--but Hua Cheng would rather be suspended upside down in a pit of burning tar than explain that to the prince.

"But there are other positions that are more exciting, so saying that someone only does missionary..."

Makes them boring.

Xie Lian nods, thinking. In that sense, that actually does sound a little bit like Feng Xin.

But in that case, how would Mu Qing know?

Unless...

...Was that why he got so nervous at the mention of Yan Zhen in the martial hall?

The mere gravity of that revelation leaves the prince rather shaken, and he struggles to force his mind from that train of thought.

"...I really don't understand how it could make so much of a difference," he mutters.

Hua Cheng glances around with a small sigh.

"There's an easier way to explain this."

Xie Lian feels the ghost king stop walking, then hears the sound of the basket hitting the ground with a low thud.

"Gege?"

His voice is slightly strained, and Xie Lian looks up with wide eyes, looking in his direction.

"Yes, San Lang?"

"You understand that never do anything untoward, don't you?"

Well, that's not exactly true. He's been forward, but his desires to be physically close to his god have always been limited by his respect.

But he really never would do something...truly inappropriate.

Not without his god's permission, and Hua Cheng isn't sure that he could ever pluck up the courage to ask.

If Xie Lian requested it, however...

"..." The god raises an eyebrow, confused. "Yes?"

"And you trust me?"

"Of course I do, San Lang." Xie Lian frowns.

Isn't that obvious? He--

Before Xie Lian can contemplate the matter further, there are hands on his shoulders, pushing him back.

In any other situation, Xie Lian would immediately defend himself--and he almost does.

But this is Hua Cheng, and the prince trusts him.

He feels his back press against the trunk of a tree—not roughly at all, but—

Hua Cheng’s hands land on the bark above his head, his arms caging him in, and the prince can’t help but swallow thickly, his voice cracking as he asks—

“What are you—?”

The prince falls silent when Hua Cheng’s forehead presses against his, his flesh perfectly cool against Xie Lian’s burning skin.

Xie Lian’s heart stutters in his chest as he bites his lip, fighting the urge to breathe. There’s nothing to worry about. This is just…just…

“For the sake of demonstration,” the ghost king explains, his voice far more even than what his own flushed expression might convey, “this is missionary.”

…An explanation. A demonstration.

Hua Cheng already said—he wouldn’t do anything inappropriate.

This—this is fine.

“…People do it standing up?” The prince whispers hoarsely, and he can actually /feel/ the lopsided smile on Hua Cheng’s face, with the ghost king’s mouth so close.

“No, your highness.” The ghost king murmurs. “But I would never put you on the ground.”

Xie Lian’s lips tremble slightly.

“It’s dirty.”

Similar to what he said in the Sinner’s Pit, but it takes on an entirely new meaning now.

“Just imagine it like this, but laying down.”

As in laying down on a bed.

Like…like…

Oh.

Suddenly, all of the blood in Xie Lian’s body seems to go rushing into his cheeks, making his face burn so hot, he feels like he might melt into a puddle.

“…Like last night?” He blurts out the words without thinking, because—

It was very similar to this. And in a bed. And…

They were…

He can’t see it, but Hua Cheng’s eyes are as wide as they could possibly be. And in his form, as the young man the villagers know as ‘Xiao Hua,’ he’s visually less intimidating. Far more like…

A young man, nervous but excited, with his first love in his arms.

“Very similar to that, your highness, yes.” Hua Cheng nods, his voice low. “With only a few minor differences.”

Xie Lian fights the urge to cover his face with his hands. He’s too old to react in such a way, really. And he wishes that he could force himself to be quiet, but…

“…Differences?”

Hua Cheng would argue, despite appearances, that he is a man with excellent self control.

He just has one minor vice. A failing, if you will.

Something that Yin Yu picked up about him very early on, as a matter of fact.

At his core, Crimson Rain Sought Flower is somewhat like a cat.

A jaguar that lives in the house, so those close often just treat him like a house cat—when, in reality, he could rip you limb from limb.

The point being…

When someone in his clutches makes some attempt at fleeing or flailing, he has this tendency to…

Play with his food, as one might say.

And he can sometimes get so caught up in that playfulness, a slightly sadistic form of amusement, that he forgets himself.

So, in that moment, forgetting all forms of pretense or nervousness—the ghost king turns his head, whispering in the prince’s ear.

“They would be between your legs, dianxia.”

Xie Lian’s eyes couldn’t possibly get any wider, his breaths coming to a complete halt.

“Or you between theirs,” the ghost king amends, his breath brushing lightly against the sensitive skin of Xie Lian’s ear as he speaks, prompting a slow shiver.

Xie Lian honestly doesn’t know how he’s managing to form thoughts, much less words.

“I…never thought of it like…”

He falls silent, and Hua Cheng’s smile widens, a hint of a sharpened canine glinting at the corner of his mouth.

“Oh? How did you think about it, gege?”

Xie Lian falls silent, swallowing hard. He’s never actually imagined…being with someone. It was only ever a distant concept.

Even when he considered asking Wu Ming to take his first time—that was only because he was afraid…that Bai Wuxiang, after what he had done wearing Feng Xin’s face, might intend to take it by force.

It’s the only reason Xie Lian could think of for why he stopped those men in the temple for trying to…well…

Xie Lian doesn’t want to think about that. Especially not right now.

The point is, he never actually envisioned what being intimate with Wu Ming would have been like.

Xie Lian struggles now, to imagine what would have happened.

Certainly, Wu Ming would have said yes. He wouldn’t have denied Xie Lian anything.

And the mere thought of the fact that Xie Lian nearly took advantage of that wracks him with guilt.

But…then what?

Wu Ming certainly must have had experience, even if he was young. He had his beloved that he was working so hard to get back to. Surely, when he was alive, they must have been…

Still, with the way Xie Lian was back then, he doubts he would have been comfortable with someone…

‘Between his legs,’ as Hua Cheng so delicately phrased it.

Still, that was likely exactly what Bai Wuxiang intended to do to him, so Xie Lian can’t say what they would have done, or how they would have done it.

The only thing he does know, in the end, is that Wu Ming would have been kind.

He would have taken care of him.

That was exactly why Xie Lian almost asked.

Because even then, in his most broken, distrustful state—

The prince felt safe, with Wu Ming.

He hadn’t felt that since.

It never occurred to him to be intimate with Kuo, for example—not even once, despite the fact that the founder of the Jiang sect had always been kind and respectful to him.

(And he made Xie Lian very, very aware of his keen interest in being lovers.)

Actually, looking back on that once incident in the bath house—

Kuo wasn’t always respectful.

But he was kind, and absolutely harmless, so Xie Lian forgives him for being a little too shameless in his advances at times.

And of course, others made advances over the years.

Men, women. Big and small, young and old.

Of course, even if Xie Lian had been open to such things—he wouldn’t have been attracted to the women. But still, he knew what impact his attentions could have on the self esteem of a young lady.

Sometimes, especially when he was the Guoshi of Yong’an—he would find a young woman who was dejected and alone, and he would ask her to dance.

Not out of attraction, but simply out of the desire to make her feel beautiful, because no one deserves to feel so unwanted.

Even if Xie Lian isn’t attracted to women, he knows they feel safer around him. Perhaps subconsciously aware of his lack of interest.

He has always treasured that.

The ability to make someone feel safe. To make them feel wanted, and worthwhile.

He adored that feeling, when he was with Hong’er.

Slowly making the boy believe that Xie Lian cared for him. That the prince wasn’t going to become disgusted or cast him out.

Xie Lian has never forgotten the way the teenager began to tremble, when he called Hong’er ‘handsome.’

He hasn’t been able to bring himself to call a man handsome since, even when encountering someone who would be objectively viewed as more ‘attractive’ by societal standards.

If Xie Lian said that to anyone else, it would feel less sincere.

Because they wouldn’t be his Hong’er.

His handsome, brave, Hong’er.

But he never imagined himself with Hong’er like that, either. He died too young, and Xie Lian was so focused on his own worthlessness, he didn’t consider things like intimacy, or having a future with anyone.

He supposes, in the eight centuries that followed, the one who came the closest as an actual ‘option’ was Lang Qianqiu.

Not at the time of the Gilded Banquet, no. Xie Lian simply viewed him as a naive teenager at that time.

But if Qi Rong and An Le’s attack had never happened…

‘I promise—I won’t let anyone hurt you. Not ever again.’

Xie Lian can’t deny that he would have been tempted by that, if Lang Qianqiu had kept the same attitudes as he grew into a man. A king.

The prince isn’t weak, even with his shackles. He can protect himself quite easily.

But still…

There’s some small part of him that craves the feeling of being protected, the way that he used to be.

If Xie Lian has any weakness, it’s to the sensation of being so honestly and sincerely cared for.

Even if he knows that he doesn’t deserve it.

So, if he had remained by Lang Qianqiu’s side as the prince of Yong’an grew older…

He might have said yes, eventually.

But when Xie Lian tries to imagine how that would have transpired, he really can’t do it.

The idea of Lang Qianqiu on top of him, between his legs…

It doesn’t really make him feel much beyond the concept of sparring, which they often did. Even so, that always ended with Lang Qianqiu disarmed on the ground, with his Guoshi standing several feet away, calmly sheathing his own blade.

And the other way around isn’t any better.

Then, it just feels like taking advantage of a former student.

And in part, that might have something to do with the fact that, while he’s sure that Lang Qianqiu is good looking, Xie Lian has never been attracted to him in that sense.

Actually, come to think of it—the number of men Xie Lian has found attractive in…THAT sense is very small.

The first is the most obvious, and the most embarrassing: Feng Xin.

If Xie Lian was sixteen, and you asked him to imagine sexual intimacy and how it would go…

His first thought probably would have gone to his guard—and, even more mortifying—exactly the way Hua Cheng had initially described it:

Between his legs.

(Apparently that’s the only way Feng Xin knows how to do it, anyway.)

Hong’er can’t be included in that category—because even now, trying to imagine the teenager in a sexual way feels inappropriate.

Sure, he would be eight centuries old by now, had he lived as long as Xie Lian—but he didn’t.

He’s tried to imagine the man Hong’er might have grown into plenty of times—but anything more than that feels wrong.

And of course, Xie Lian found Wu Ming attractive, even if he was only vaguely familiar with what the savage ghost looked like.

He was tall, and broad. Xie Lian remembers that. With long, soft hair…gentle hands.

But the thing Xie Lian remembers most vividly about him, oddly enough, is such a small detail. One that isn’t even related to what Wu Ming looked like.

Wu Ming’s clothes.

Xie Lian knows, from the briefest of glimpses before the ghost was dispersed, that Wu Ming wore all black—but that isn’t what sticks out in his memory.

It’s far more tactile than that.

When they were outside the palace of Yong’an, and Wu Ming was holding him…kissing him, before, and after…

They were that of a soldier. Scaled armor on the chest and forearms—but with gaps around the elbows and biceps, where Xie Lian held onto him.

The fabric was layered and padded underneath, creating a soft, giving feel—almost like a thick coat.

And when Xie Lian rested his cheek on Wu Ming’s shoulder, even if only for a moment—it smelled like campfire smoke in a forest after the rain.

It’s those details that built into attraction, and Xie Lian can’t explain why.

Even if he’ll never know what Wu Ming’s face looked like, beneath that mask—just remembering the smell of him, the feel of him, makes Xie Lian’s chest ache with an inexplicable amount of yearning.

Since then, he can’t say he’s been firmly attracted to a man since.

Pei, he supposes, is attractive. But Xie Lian only assumes as much from the sound of his voice, and with how many people the general has had in his bed. But he’s never imagined being intimate with him, either.

Even now, if he tried—Xie Lian isn’t excited by the prospect.

And then, very, very recently, things changed.

Because Hua Cheng…on an objective level, is very attractive. That isn’t unusual. Everyone seems to think so.

But it’s odd that Xie Lian does, as well.

It’s difficult, especially now, in this position, resolving himself to that fact.

Because it isn’t about the ghost king’s physical appearance. After all—he has the same effect on the prince, regardless of what form he’s in.

(Even his female form, which was the most surprising.)

It’s a number of factors pulled together. Some tactile, others not.

It’s how tall he is. How broad his shoulders are. The size of his hands, and how they feel on Xie Lian’s waist.

It’s the way his voice sounds when he smiles.

Or, how it rumbles and snarls when he’s angry. The way his laugh can be cocky and arrogant, or soft with fondness.

It’s the way he smells so familiar, even if Xie Lian knows it isn’t the same, not after the humiliating spectacle he made on Mount Yu Jun.

It’s how strong he is—the only person who has ever been able to physically overpower Xie Lian.

(Aside from Bai Wuxiang, but the prince refuses to take that into account right now.)

How surprised Xie Lian was at the fact that being overpowered by Hua Cheng didn’t frighten him.

Actually, it did the opposite.

It’s in the way that just the sound of the bells on Hua Cheng’s boots can bring a smile to Xie Lian’s face, his heart warming with the knowledge that he’s here.

(San Lang is here.)

All of those things—they build into attraction.

Xie Lian hasn’t been silent for that long, his mind moving at a mile a minute, but he’s slowly coming to that dawning realization, the truth cresting over him like a wave, slamming into his psyche with force.

He’s attracted to Hua Cheng.

Not because he’s objectively attractive.

He is, but that’s not why.

It’s because /Xie Lian/ finds him attractive.

‘How did you imagine it then, your highness?’

And when Xie Lian imagines being with /him/…

His mind goes back to the night before.

How his thoughts seemed to go sideways, with Hua Cheng on top of him.

The way his heart lurched when he felt Hua Cheng’s knee between his thighs.

Oh.

“I…” Xie Lian swallows thickly, squeezing his eyes shut. “I…”

And when he tries to imagine it the other way around, with the ghost king’s long, strong legs around his hips, he…

That image is far more intimidating, because Xie Lian would have no idea what to do, and Hua Cheng…

He makes every aspect of intimacy seem so easy, the thought of being in that position makes the prince feel somewhat insecure.

But he can certainly imagine it.

And the idea of it—while all of this is a stretch for Xie Lian, because any image of sexual intimacy conjures up instincts of repression and shame—it certainly isn’t unappealing.

But right now, when they’re like this, with Hua Cheng looming over him…

The thought of having the ghost king underneath him makes Xie Lian excited. Nervous, embarrassed—but excited.

But at this very moment, the thought of having Hua Cheng between his legs?

That sets him on fire, and Xie Lian isn’t sure what to make of it.

“I’m…”

“Yes?”

“…I don’t think I would be picky,” the prince answers, mortified by how meek his voice sounds.

Hua Cheng’s smile only widens. “I would expect no less, gege has never been self centered.”

His eyes slide down, watching Xie Lian’s pulse, throbbing beneath his skin.

The way his Adam’s apple bobs up and down each time he swallows—making the choker around his neck move with it.

As though the ruby encrusted butterfly wings adorning it are about to burst into flight.

“But that isn’t the same as what you imagined.”

“…I wouldn’t know what to imagine, San Lang,” Xie Lian mutters—and that’s half true.

He knows the vague mechanics of sex, but he can’t conceive much more beyond something highly rudimentary.

“It’s very simple, your highness,” the ghost king—

Oh good heavens, he’s /purring./

“If you were with someone, in this position—how would you imagine it?”

At first, Xie Lian can’t understand why Hua Cheng is asking. After all, it’s not like Xie Lian is ever going to be intimate with anyone, but…slowly, the logic behind the question clicks into place.

This is a demonstration.

Hua Cheng even stated beforehand—this was just the easiest way for him to explain the position. Making it very clear—he would never do something untoward.

The only one making this…more than that, is Xie Lian.

(Because he’s attracted to Hua Cheng.)

That realization is still slamming into him over and over again, spiraling behind every thought.

But you can still be friends with someone, and be attracted to them. Xie Lian handled that with Feng Xin very well. And eventually, he got over it.

Xie Lian doesn’t see Feng Xin that way now. He can’t imagine being…intimate with him now, not anymore.

So, eventually, he’ll get over this…physical reaction to Hua Cheng, too.

And everything will be fine, just like it was before.

In the meantime, however, that doesn’t make answering Hua Cheng’s question any less embarrassing.

Still—he’s trying to be helpful, so…

Xie Lian mumbles something unintelligible under his breath, and the ghost king leans closer, his nose brushing the hollow beneath his ear.

“What was that, your highness?”

Xie Lian’s lips tremble.

“…On top of me,” he croaks.

It’s probably for the best that he doesn’t see how Hua Cheng’s pupils dilate sharply in response.

To say that the calamity has imagined every feasible scenario would be an understatement.

And he would be eager—honored, beyond words, in fact—to live out any one of them.

But hearing his god say that, /like/ that…

Then, Xie Lian realizes that his answer doesn’t entirely line up with what Hua Cheng said—so he struggles to correct himself.

“I…I mean…between my…” Hua Cheng’s knee bumps against his, and Xie Lian finally surrenders to the urge to cover his face with one hand, his cheeks burning.

“…Legs…” He concludes in a small voice, worried if he speaks any louder, it might crack.

A mortifying sound does slip out of him, however, when one of Hua Cheng’s hands grasps the prince’s wrist, pulling it away from his face, pinning it against the tree overhead.

Xie Lian’s eyes snap wide open as he breathes in sharply through his nose, and…

Hua Cheng’s forehead is pressed against his own once more—the coolness of it almost soothing.

If not for the fact that their noses are bumping together, and their mouths are so close, Xie Lian can almost feel it.

“Apologies, dianxia,” the ghost king murmurs.

(He says this, not sounding sorry at all.)

“But the benefit of this position comes from being face to face, remember?”

The prince presses his lips together so tightly, they feel almost numb.

Right.

For once, Xie Lian is relieved by the fact that he can’t see.

If he could, making eye contact in a position like this…

That would be too much.

(He’s relieved now, that Hua Cheng decided to push him against a tree to demonstrate. Otherwise, the prince’s knees would have buckled long ago.)

“…I don’t know if this demonstration has been very helpful,” the prince swallows thickly, his wrist limp in Hua Cheng’s grip, and the Ghost King raises an eyebrow, his expression briefly coloring with concern.

“Oh?”

Xie Lian bites his lip.

“…This isn’t boring, San Lang.”

And, according to Hua Cheng’s description, that’s exactly what this position—or the position similar to this, Xie Lian supposes, is supposed to feel like.

But Xie Lian doesn’t think he’s ever been less bored in his entire life.

“…” The calamity smiles.

“But I already explained, your highness.”

Did he? Explain what—?

“If you’re with someone who is good at it, it’s never boring.”

Oh.

Xie Lian’s throat feels try all of the sudden, his tongue latching to the roof of his mouth.

Hua Cheng did say that, didn’t he?

And…it seems almost obvious that Hua Cheng would be good at this.

A natural aspect of life, actually.

“Is this too much, gege?”

It’s a sudden question, and if Xie Lian is being honest—maybe it is.

Not because he’s uncomfortable, but simply because he’s so…overwhelmed.

But admitting to that seems far worse, so he simply shakes his head.

“No,” he whispers, taking deep, steadying breaths, like he does when he’s meditating. “I’m alright.”

He is, that isn’t a lie—he’s just worried that his sudden feelings of attraction might become too obvious.

“You’re sure?”

The prince nods again, and—

It happens quickly.

Hands grip his waist, spinning Xie Lian around until he’s facing the tree, his hands scrambling for purchase—only for Hua Cheng to gather both of the prince’s wrists up in one hand, pinning them over his head.

Before, it felt like Hua Cheng’s arms were caging him in.

Now, it feels like the ghost king’s entire body is surrounding him.

His chest against Xie Lian’s shoulders, a hand wrapped around his hip—his knee pressed against the back of the prince’s thighs.

Oh.

/Ba-bump./

He—

Now, it feels like Xie Lian really couldn’t breathe, even if he wanted to.

His heart is hammering in his chest—which is mortifying, because he knows Hua Cheng must be able to hear it, and—

The ghost king leans down, his mouth hovering just over the nape of Xie Lian’s neck.

“Every position is enjoyable, if you’re with someone who is good at it,” the ghost king explains calmly, watching goosebumps rise across the prince’s skin.

“Some of them are just a little more exciting.”

“…”

Well, Xie Lian was wrong.

Almost comically incorrect.

Hua Cheng was actually giving an absolutely helpful demonstration. Perhaps the most accurate illustration of a concept that Xie Lian has ever experienced.

“…I get it…” He mumbles, his voice cracking in two places.

“Do you?” Hua Cheng smiles, leaning closer, until his lips are just a hair’s breadth away from the skin of his nape. “Does gege have any more questions?”

After this, Xie Lian doesn’t know if he’ll be able to ask them without…hoping for another demonstration.

Which is wrong.

Xie Lian shouldn’t take advantage of Hua Cheng’s willingness to help.

“…No,” the prince rasps, shrinking slightly, shuddering when the calamity leans in after him, his chest pressed against Xie Lian’s back. “T-thank you, San Lang, this was a…very enlightening demonstration…”

Hua Cheng seems to take the hint that Xie Lian is becoming quite overwhelmed, letting go of his wrists as he leans back, giving the god a moment to compose himself.

Which Xie Lian endeavors to do, pressing his face against the tree bark, catching his breath.

“You’re welcome.”

Hua Cheng sounds sly—but gentle, and Xie Lian…

His lips tighten at the corners as his hands grip either side of the tree trunk, more than aware of how ridiculous this must seem.

After all, the ghost king barely touched him—and certainly not inappropriately, just as he promised—

But here the prince is, practically hugging a tree, weak in the knees.

And that realization is still ringing in Xie Lian’s head:

(He’s attracted to Hua Cheng.)

The Ghost King watches the back of Xie Lian’s head, his arms crossed over his chest.

Comparatively, he might seem more composed, but…

(That certainly isn’t the reality, inside Hua Cheng’s head.)

“Are you alright, your highness?”

“Yes,” Xie Lian agrees quickly, his voice much more composed than it was before—even if it’s still slightly unsteady. “Yes, I’m sorry—I was just surprised.”

Hua Cheng arches one eyebrow. “By what?”

‘Oh, just the fact that I’m attracted to you. No big deal, really.’

Honestly, what is he supposed to say?

“Oh…just that Fu Yao would say something like that to Nan Feng,” he mutters, clearing his throat. “I really never thought they’d discuss that sort of thing with one another.”

Hua Cheng tilts his head, rocking back on his heels.

“Maybe they do more than discuss it.”

Xie Lian chokes, whipping his head around in Hua Cheng’s direction—still braced against the tree. “San Lang, you don’t mean that they…?”

His companion shrugs, kneeling down to pick up the baskets from their shopping trip once more.

“Who can say, gege,” he replies airily, “they’re strange. But there are rumors.”

Xie Lian doubts he should put much stock in those—after all, there were so many rumors about him over the centuries—and nearly all of them were wrong.

Ironically enough, the only story he heard about himself that was actually true (in the heavens, at least) was that horrible play.

Better not to assume, then.

When they make it back to the shrine, Shuo has already returned.

And, to Xie Lian’s surprise—like Hua Cheng, he works fast.

Most of the actual construction on the new addition to the shrine is already finished, and while he adds the final touches, Xie Lian prepares a meal for himself and Hua Cheng.

Not for the children, of course—Xie Lian still entrusts Shuo with that. He does offer the forest demon a serving, however—which is politely declined.

Now, the prince could choke down just about anything—he’s had to learn that skill. As such, his own cooking doesn’t bother him.

But still…it’s for Hua Cheng, and it’s intended to be a thank you, for everything the ghost king has done for him recently—so the prince does his best, applying what he’s learned from following Shuo around in the kitchen for the last few weeks, and…

It has to be better, right?

Even E’Ming helped, to Xie Lian’s surprise. Despite being such an infamously ‘dangerous’ spiritual devise, in the prince’s experience…

There’s something endearing about the scimitar, like an over eager puppy as it rushes forward to assist him with tasks.

“Is it in the way, gege?” Hua Cheng questions, leaning against the counter, sending E’Ming a harsh look—but Xie Lian shakes his head.

“Oh, no—E’Ming being helpful, honest!”

Just the smallest compliment makes the blade shiver with delight, it’s eye spinning wildly in it’s hilt.

It seems so unused to receiving praise—Xie Lian almost feels sorry for the blade. After all—he and Ruoye got off to a difficult start…

(For completely obvious reasons.)

But it’s important to get on well with one’s spiritual devices.

Xie Lian can’t say he completely lives up to that belief. Not when it comes to Fangxin, anyway.

He’s known the weapon for just as long as Ruoye, and still…

It’s never felt like his own. Not even now, centuries after the fact.

But Hua Cheng doesn’t seem to have a negative history with E’Ming. He’s already told Xie Lian that E’Ming was the first weapon he ever forged.

Shouldn’t that’s be a fond memory?

Before long, the stew is finished (and hopefully, edible.)

Rather than eating it inside, at the table—Hua Cheng opts to sit on the porch, his legs dangling over the ledge. Lazily swallowing mouthfuls of soup as he enjoys the breeze.

Xie Lian waits, almost fretfully, and the ghost king speaks up—

“It’s good.”

His face brightens.

“Really?”

Honestly, he can’t taste that much of a difference from usual—but after their conversation the other night, Xie Lian wonders if he’s just learned not to notice the way things taste.

After all, he used to be a picky eater, and now—he’ll eat anything.

He used to be a child who would weep and cry for his mother over the smallest scrape on his knee, only to be consoled when she would kiss it better.

“Mmm…” Hua Cheng hums in agreement, swallowing down another bite. “A little thick, but it’s got flavor.”

The fact that he doesn’t claim the dish is perfect makes Xie Lian find the praise somewhat more sincere, and he smiles, sitting on the porch beside him, picking at his own serving.

“Dianxia seems to be in a good mood this evening,”

Hua Cheng is watching him from the corner of his eye, rolling his spoon between his fingers.

Xie Lian shrugs, a persistent smile still tugging at his lips.

It’s a silly thought—Hua Cheng wouldn’t tease him if he shared it, but still.

He just…

He never would have thought that, eight centuries later, someone would still be kissing his cuts and bruises better.

Hua Cheng seems tempted to pry him for an answer, but before he can ask, a group of villagers come down the path, returning from the fields.

“Say…” One of the villagers stops, glancing in Hua Cheng’s direction curiously. He’s back in his form from before—the slightly older version of his true form that pulled Xie Lian from the lake. “Doesn’t he look a bit like Xiao Hua, to you?”

“It’s a pretty strong resemblance!”

Xie Lian’s smile turns form one of quiet fondness to that of awkwardness as he struggles to fumble for an explanation.

“Ah, well…you see…!”

Hua Cheng smiles, stretching his legs out in front o f him, leaning back on his elbows lazily.

“He gets the good looks from me.”

“…Ah, you’re the boy’s father?” One of the women in the group raises an eyebrow, surprised. “You don’t look old enough to have a son that age!”

Xie Lian expects Hua Cheng to correct them with some other explanation, but he simply shrugs.

“I’m older than I look.”

Xie Lian has to bite back the sudden urge to laugh.

Hundreds of years older, as a matter of fact.

“You know the parents of that other lad that’s been around? Shuo, wasn’t it?”

This reply comes as easily as the last—

“He’s one of mine, too.”

That directly undermines everything Shuo has said on the matter—even if it’s just a tall tale that Hua Cheng is telling the villagers.

“Really? You two don’t look very much alike.”

After all—Shuo’s hair has a different shade and texture—and his eyes are lighter.

Hua Cheng tilts his head to the side, unbothered.

“He gets his looks from the wife, actually.”

At first, Xie Lian doesn’t think very much of that statement—after all, it’s just a few easy little white lies to sate their curiosity.

And Hua Cheng obviously isn’t married.

He wouldn’t be going around offering a kiss as a means to settle a gambling debt if he was. Other men might—but Hua Cheng isn’t that sort of person.

“Ah, is she in town with you?”

“Back home, I’m afraid,” the ghost king murmurs, just as Xie Lian lifts his spoon to his lips.

“She’s a bit under the weather.”

“Oh, is it serious?”

“Nothing too bad—” The corner of his mouth curves upwards. “She just took a swim in some cold water recently, and it didn’t sit right with her.”

To which Xie Lian promptly chokes, covering his mouth and coughing.

“Ah, you gotta be careful!” One of the farmer frowns, shaking his head. “That sort of thing will knock you down real quick!”

“I know,” Hua Cheng sighs, disapproving. “What am I going to do with her?”

Xie Lian stares into his bowl blindly, warmth slowly creeping up his face.

“Are you sure she’ll be alright back home by herself?” The farmer’s wife frets. Hua Cheng smiles, shaking his head.

“Oh, there’s always someone looking after her—don’t worry.”

“Are you sure?”

“Mmm,” the ghost king hums, setting his empty bowl aside. “Like a proper princess.”

Poor Xie Lian hasn’t even had the chance to clear his airway before he’s sent coughing again, his shoulders hunched.

“You alright, daozhang?”

“Ah, he’s fine,” Hua Cheng answers for him as Xie Lian chugs down some weather. “Just a long day.”

One of the villagers in the group glances at the sun, slipping down beneath the horizon. “…It’s getting pretty late boss, don’t you think we should…?”

“Yeah, yeah,” the farmer rocks back on his heels, adjusting his belt. “We should get going. It was nice meeting you, Mr…?”

“Hua,” the ghost king confirms with an easy going smile. “It was nice meeting you, as well.”

Xie Lian can’t help but notice that there seems to be an ease to Hua Cheng when he’s here. Quite unlike anywhere else.

Even in ghost city—he has a gravity to him. One of authority.

But here…

Hua Cheng seems younger, relaxed. Like he’s…

Like he’s happy, in Puqi Shrine.

The thought of that makes Xie Lian smile, even as his tone turns scolding.

“San Lang…”

The ghost king glances up, a picture of innocence.

“Yes, gege?”

“Shuo was right.”

“Oh?” Hua Cheng turns to face him, raising an eyebrow. “About what?”

Xie Lian just as soon turns away, picking up their empty bowls as he rises to his feet.

“You /are/ a bully.”

The ghost king gasps, clasping a hand over his heart as though he’s been gravely wounded.

“Me?!”

“You.”

Cool fingers grasp his wrist was Xie Lian steps towards the door, Hua Cheng stretched out on the porch to reach for him.

“You don’t mean that…”

And of course he sounds oh so pitiful.

Xie Lian turns his head away. He’s almost forgotten how to be haughty, but he manages a small sniff, tilting his chin up.

“I think I do.”

Briefly, Hua Cheng is just caught staring at him, and while Xie Lian can’t know his expression—

His eyes are wide, openly endeared.

After a moment he shakes himself out of it, his voice sly.

“Gege doesn’t think I’m a bully…” He whines, tugging at the prince’s wrist gently. “He thinks I’m boyish and charming.”

Xie Lian lowers his chin, working so hard not to smile, the corners of his mouth ache.

He’s become so accustomed to faking smiles, he forgot what it was like to try to hide one. Or to even need to.

“Boyish and charming?”

Hua Cheng bobs his head in agreement, “Yes, that’s exactly what gege thinks.”

The corner of Xie Lian's mouth stubbornly tugs upwards, no matter how hard he tries to stop it.

"And what else do I think?"

Hua Cheng's grip on his wrist has loosened now, but the prince doesn't make an effort to pull away.

"...I wish I knew," the ghost king admits softly.

Xie Lian falls silent for a moment, his heart thumping unsteadily, eyes averted.

"...About you?" He questions--his voice shifting from playful to unsure.

And if he could see the yearning in the calamity's eyes--he would take mercy on him.

But he can't.

"About everything."

That draws a disbelieving snort.

"San Lang would get sick of the sound of my voice if he wanted to know everything I ever thought," Xie Lian mutters, trying to laugh it off, but...

Hua Cheng's thumb strokes the inside of his wrist. A small movement, but...

Intimate.

"Never."

Xie Lian swallows hard.

It's difficult, sometimes, how being around Hua Cheng can go from moments of almost blissful ease to that of sudden intensity.

Having become so unaccustomed to the weight of another person's attention...Xie Lian can't help but shrink back from it.

He moves to pull his wrist from Hua Cheng's grip with a small smile, shaking his head.

"You're so insincere..."

But before he can, the ghost king's hold on him tightens.

"I swear," he murmurs, his eyes never leaving Xie Lian's face, even as he tries to duck his head.

"You'll never find anyone on heaven and earth more sincere than me."

It's the same line he said that night after they returned from the Half Moon Kingdom, and he still...

Xie Lian bites his lip, breathing in deeply through his nose--wishing his heart would settle down.

There's a question lingering in the back of the prince's mind. Maybe it was always there--but it's a seed that has taken root.

And every moment he spends with San Lang, it pushes deeper into the forefront of his mind, becoming more and more difficult to ignore:

'Why do I feel this way when I'm around you?'

The chain around his neck has never felt heavier.

Suddenly, a voice calls out from inside the shrine--

"Are you gonna stop messing with dianxia or not? I'm finished."

Xie Lian jumps, finally pulling his wrist away.

"What?"

He whips around, clutching the bowls from their dinner in both hands.

Shuo stretches his arms over his head, shaking the sawdust from his hair. "With the new room? It's all done."

The prince arches an eyebrow, all while Hua Cheng stares sharply over his shoulder.

"Already?"

"Mmmmhm," the demon nods, rolling a small wooden doll in the palm of his hand. "Once the foundation was in place, the rest was easy."

"Oh," Xie Lian blinks, then smiles. "Well, thank you! That was very--"

"It's the least he could do," Hua Cheng interrupts, brushing himself off as he stands up. "No need to thank him."

The forest demon sticks his tongue out at him, rolling his eyes. "At least his highness thinks you're a bully too."

"A huge bully," Xie Lian agrees, still smiling.

Hua Cheng practically drops to the ground, clutching at his chest as though mortally wounded by Xie Lian’s betrayal.

“I was only following gege’s lead, if you think about it.”

Xie Lian opens his mouth to say he doesn’t know what he means, but—

Then, he remembers.

Not very long ago, he was in ghost city. Appearing as a woman. Claiming to be looking for her husband. Calling herself…

Well. Hua Cheng actually does have a point, mortifying as it might be.

“…Better not to dwell on it,” the prince mutters quickly, turning around.

“San Lang, could you change the other two back now? Surely it’s been long enough…”

The Ghost King lets out an irritated huff, but he shrugs.

With a wave of his hand, there are two puffs of green and red smoke.

Qi Rong lays upon the floor, coughing and wheezing.

“You FUCKER!”

His hands are bound behind his back, giving him little more to do than roll around and scream out curses.

When Shuo looks down, however, instead of a doll in his hand—there’s someone else’s hand.

A man’s hand.

He and Lang Qianqiu stare at one another for a moment, shocked.

The demon recovers first, his eyes narrowing as he yanks his hand out of the god’s grip, using it to slap Lang Qianqiu upside the head—hard.

“The FUCK are you doing, creep?!”

“ME?!” The prince of Yong’an cries.

“You were the one holding me when I changed back!”

“I was TAUNTING you!” Shuo huffs, hands on his hips. “That doesn’t mean I wanna hold your sweaty ass HAND!”

“I’m not sweaty—and maybe you shouldn’t have been—OW!” He clutches his head when the demon smacks his skull again.

“Don’t blame the VICTIM!”

“Would you stop hitting me?! YOU aren’t the one who spent the entire day as a DARUMA DOLL!”

Shuo looks away, crossing his arms with a sniff.

“I suffered in other ways.”

His dignity, primarily—and even in doll form, Lang Qianqiu got to witness it.

The prince snickers, even with his ears wringing, and he adjusts his robes.

“Yeah, nice piggy-back ride…” Shuo stiffens, his shoulders hunching, and Lang Qianqiu can’t resist the urge to tack on—

“Getting to that age, huh? No wonder your old man—!”

He can’t even finish that sentence before he breaks off with a wheeze, falling down to his knees, clutching his throat.

Shuo shakes out his fist with a glare.

“In the next twenty minutes it takes that body of yours to reconstruct your voice box, I’d learn to watch your mouth.”

“Shuo…” Xie Lian starts, exasperated, half wishing he had allowed Hua Cheng to keep the two as Daruma dolls until morning, but the ghost king speaks first.

“It’s an important lesson for him to learn, dianxia.”

“Is it…?” The prince questions, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Sure,” Hua Cheng shrugs, placing a foot on Qi Rong’s throat—if only to stop him from wailing so loudly. “Don’t taunt someone stronger than you if you can’t back it up.”

It’s a rather simplistic way of phrasing it. After all, Shuo was taunting him too, but…

Lang Qianqiu probably could stand to learn not to mention a sensitive subject. And the parental nature of Shuo’s relationship with Hua Cheng, for whatever reason, is clearly one of them.

But it’s even more odd to consider the fact that Hua Cheng is correct.

Perhaps it only feels counter intuitive because he’s far smaller in size—

But Shuo is quite a bit stronger than Lang Qianqiu is.

“In any case…” Xie Lian sighs, looking to Qi Rong. “I suppose we can’t let him starve while he’s in that body.”

“FINALLY!” Qi Rong snaps, rolling onto his back, thrashing with annoyance. “Did the kid finally make me some fucking FOOD?!”

Shuo’s eye twitches and Xie Lian sends him a disgusted look.

“No, I did.”

He has no way of knowing—but Qi Rong’s undead pallor pales even further.

“…I’m not hungry.”

Hua Cheng flicks his wrist, and suddenly the green ghost’s body is being lifted up, slid over, and slammed down into one of the kitchen chairs.

“Don’t be ungrateful, Qi Rong.”

Xie Lian’s cousin sense him a hateful glare.

“I said I’m not FUCKIN’ HUNGRY!”

“You don’t want that body to starve, do you?” Xie Lian smiles serenely, filling up another bowl.

“I’d rather eat DIRT!”

“That can easily be arranged.” He hums, tapping the excess soup off of his spoon. “San Lang?”

“Yes?”

“Hold him still for me.”

Not the most enjoyable job, Xie Lian knows—but the ghost king doesn’t complain.

“Of course, gege.”

He steps over, wrenching Qi Rong up by the hair, forcing him to sit properly, gripping his jaw tightly until his mouth is forced open.

“HEY—YOU—MOTHERFU—!”

Xie Lian is usually slightly more graceful, blindness and all—but this time, he simply opts to ram the wooden spoon into Qi Rong’s mouth carelessly, clacking against his teeth, chipping one of them in the process.

“Don’t speak with your mouth full. It’s unsightly.”

A snarling, gagging noise escapes him with each bite that Xie Lian rams down his throat, but with Hua Cheng holding his jaw open, he doesn’t form any more coherent words until the entire bowl has been emptied.

“There,” the prince leans back, carrying the dishes to the sink.

“You can look forward to meals like that for as long as you’re in that body.”

The ghost sputters and glares, his face turning the same color as his robes. “You think you can force me out?! YOU WON’T!” He coughs and gags, thrashing in Hua Cheng’s grip.

“I’LL STAY IN THIS BODY AS LONG AS I WANT!! I’ll stay until IT DIES!”

“…” Xie Lian pinches the bridge of his nose. At this rate, he’ll wake Guzi and Lang Ying up, screaming so much. “San Lang?”

“Hmm?”

“Now that he’s eaten, I’m not sure that he needs to speak anymore.”

Qi Rong squawks, struggling even more vigorously in Hua Cheng’s grip. “YOU CAN’T JUST—!”

/Crack!/

He disappears in a green puff of smoke, clattering to the floor woodenly.

Hua Cheng kicks the doll aside.

“Better?”

Xie Lian sends him a grateful smile, rinsing off their used dishes.

“Much, thank you.”

At this point, Lang Qianqiu seems to have healed enough to speak, wheezing as he slams his hand on the kitchen table, rising to his feet.

“You—!”

Before he can protest his ill treatment—which Shuo seems eager to hear, crossing his arm with a smirk, ready to punch him in the throat at another moment’s notice—

Xie Lian steps between them, cutting Lang Qianqiu off. “It’s been a long day,” he mutters, shaking his head.

“I’d say it’s time we all got some rest.”

It isn’t that late, actually—but Xie Lian would rather go to bed early than have these two knock down his shrine a second time.

After all—with Hua Cheng here, he doubts the Ghost King would take so kindly to that.

Shuo brightens, seeming all too pleased with the prospect. “Oh, perfect.” He drags his gaze over to Lang Qianqiu, his eyes glinting with smug satisfaction. “I already made the perfect spot for you to sleep—”

“No,” Xie Lian cuts him off, picking up the Daruma doll.

“Qi Rong can sleep in the dog house, since you were kind enough to build it.”

Shuo raises an eyebrow, about to ask what that means for—

“And Lang Qianqiu can sleep upstairs, with you.”

A soft cry of indignation rips from the demon’s throat, “But—!”

A sharp look from Hua Cheng makes him fall silent, and when he speaks again, his voice is far more measured.

“But…your highness, he isn’t—!”

“The upper level seems plenty big enough for more than one person,” Xie Lian shrugs.

The size is downright luxurious, if you ask him.

“But if it’s an issue, you could always sleep down here.”

Which doesn’t leave Shuo with any good options.

Because if he sleeps downstairs, that means sleeping with the kids.

And Shuo would rather sleep in a lava pit than anywhere near Lang Ying.

The other option would be sleeping with Hua Cheng and Xie Lian.

And that is uncomfortable for an entirely different reason. Really, it would serve Hua Cheng right if he DID decide to bunk with the two of them, but—

“Fine,” the forest demon grumbles, marching towards the steps.

He shoots Lang Qianqiu a nasty look before ascending. “If you get within five feet of me, I’ll skin you alive.”

To which the martial god rolls his eyes, crossing his arms. “Don’t talk to me like I’m some sort of creep, I haven’t done anything to you!” He grumbles.

Then, as he moves to follow, his eyes drift to Hua Cheng—then, back to Xie Lian, narrowing slightly.

Clearly remembering what happened the last time he caught the two alone together.

(If only he had known what happened in the last twenty four hours, it would make Hua Cheng’s ‘medical assistance’ seem rather tame.)

“Or…I could always sleep down—”

“You can sleep upstairs,” Hua Cheng interrupts him, his voice firm.

The two stare at one another, glaring.

Xie Lian turns away from the sink—unable to see their heated expressions, but certainly able to sense the tension in the air.

“…”

And, naturally, he misinterprets Lang Qianqiu’s concern.

“Oh, you don’t need to worry—I’ve slept with San Lang plenty of times already.”

A soft wheeze, almost similar to a death rattle wrenches itself from Lang Qianqiu’s throat, his eyes bulging out of his skull.

Normally, Hua Cheng would feel obligated to correct such a presumption. For the prince’s honor, if nothing else.

In this situation, however…

“He’s correct,” the ghost king recalls sagely. “Every night for an entire week, the last time I was here.”

If Lang Qianqiu grew any paler, he might be mistaken for a ghost himself.

“For an entire week—?!”

Xie Lian tilts his head to the side, confused.

“Well, if it was okay the first time, why wouldn’t it be okay all the other nights?”

Implications about Xie Lian’s theoretical endurance (or prowess, depending on Lang Qianqiu’s assumptions) aside, Hua Cheng can’t help but pour more fuel on the fire.

“Oh, but I would always ask first, your highness. I never assume.”

Xie Lian smiles faintly.

That’s true, isn’t it? Even over something as small as sharing a bed for the evening, Hua Cheng always waits to be invited, first.

“That’s true, San Lang—but you don’t have to.”

After all, it’s a small thing—but Xie Lian has always adored sleeping beside someone he trusts. When he was a child, he loathed to sleep alone, and would often crawl into the bedroom of his parents, pleading to sleep with them until his father relented.

Even when he became old enough to feel embarrassed about sleeping in the same bed as his parents—he would often find excuses for Feng Xin to sleep in his room with him, and later Mu Qing.

And even then, when all of those who were beside him before had gone, he slept beside Hong’er. Claiming that he was cold, just so the boy would come in from sleeping on the steps outside the shrine.

For centuries after that, he slept alone. The only break in that was Banyue.

Falling asleep with her in his arms beside the campfire each night.

And sharing his bed with Hua Cheng now—there’s a level of comfort in it. A sense of security borne from trust.

“Really, Lang Qianqiu—there’s nothing to worry yourself over,” Xie Lian assures him.

“…” The prince locks his jaw, looking back towards Hua Cheng, who is positively smirking from ear to ear, looking quite like the cat that’s caught the canary.

“…Alright, Guoshi…if…if you say so,” he mutters, turning and skulking up the steps without another word.

Xie Lian lets out a tired sigh, reaching out to feel his way around, looking for the door leading to the new bedroom—but another hand quickly finds his own, squeezing gently as he leads the way.

A smile smile spreads across Xie Lian’s face as he follows.

“Thank you, San Lang.”

The new bedroom is plenty spacious enough for him—with sparse furnishings, given how little Xie LIan had to begin with, but with an improved sleeping mat, far more comfortable than the bamboo bedroll he had been using before.

It’s different lying in bed beside Hua Cheng now, than it was his first night in the shrine. Xie Lian isn’t so carefully distant, curled up on his side with his limbs folded in. Hua Cheng seems just as relaxed, his hands folded underneath his head, laying beneath the same blanket

The prince is far more quiet than usual—but Hua Cheng doesn’t press him on it, seeming to attribute Xie Lian’s silence to fatigue, but…

In reality, it’s because the prince can’t stop thinking. Turning one thought round and round in his head, over and over again.

‘I’m attracted to Hua Cheng.’

Ever since he realized that a few hours ago, it’s like the thought comes back to haunt him each time it even comes close to slipping his mind.

Xie Lian hasn’t been in the position of being so…actively aware of something like this.

Not since he was a teenager, just becoming aware of the fact that he was attracted to men at all for the first time.

And it’s not as though Xie Lian doesn’t understand why he feels the way he does. There are plenty of things about Hua Cheng to feel drawn to.

But Xie Lian also understands that most people—most normal people—feel passing attraction for those around them relatively frequently, and it doesn’t always mean anything significant.

For Xie Lian, it’s been eight centuries.

Isn’t that inherently significant? Does it mean…?

Even considering the possibility makes Xie Lian feel…guilty.

His finger finds it’s way to the chain around his neck, slowly winding it around his knuckle.

Grief is a complicated, selfish beast.

Making room for new people in your heart can often make it seem as though there’s less space for those that you have lost. And that—that feels like a betrayal, even so many years later.

And even placing that aside—who is to say that Hua Cheng even returns those sentiments?

After all—in all of the time Xie Lian has spent with him, he seems like a rather straightforward person. Blunt, even.

If he felt that way, wouldn’t it be more likely that he would just say so?

But still, even as sleep begins to creep over him, his mind wonders.

And when he’s finally drifted off—his back is pressed against the Ghost King’s side, with Hua Cheng’s fingers twisting lazily through his god’s hair.

He’s lost in thoughts of his own. His being of a slightly less savory nature.

‘This isn’t boring, San Lang.’

‘On…on top of me…’

His eye squeezes shut. There’s no need for air in his lungs, and still—he takes careful, even breaths through his nose.

‘Between…between my legs…’

It would be dishonest of Hua Cheng to say that he had never imagined the prince in certain situations.

Even if he felt guilty for doing so, his imagination is overactive and rather…vivid.

Once, after a night of particularly sharp loneliness and self loathing, he even made a clone that looked like…well…

(And felt so ashamed, he dispersed the illusion before too much could come of it.)

It isn’t the carnal desire that Hua Cheng feels ashamed of. He never had such an upbringing where he was raised to believe that desiring someone in that way was wrong.

As a matter of fact, when he was just a teenager, Xie Lian himself reassured Hong’er that there was nothing wrong about wanting someone, be it man or woman.

Of course, Hua Cheng doubts the god meant anything sexual about it at that time, and was likely referring only to emotion.

But, given the fact that Hong’er had only ever felt romantically attracted to one person in his life, and in all of the years since—he took it in a slightly different way.

He’s always been a greedy, selfish creature. Coveting everything his heart desires.

That is reflected by his behavior upon becoming a ghost king.

Building a palace filled to the brim with the rarest of treasures. Gorging himself (though maybe not quite so voraciously as He Xuan) on the finest meals and wines.

Hua Cheng has never once felt guilty for that.

The only thing he has ever felt guilty for desiring, in the end, is his god.

Because he knows he isn’t worthy of it.

But even through the guilt, desire still lingers, eating away at him.

Remembering the soft moan Hua Cheng felt against his lips the night before.

Dissecting every single shiver that his god lets out when he’s around him. The way his skin sometimes flushes pink after Hua Cheng speaks.

It makes long burning heat smolder into a spark. A desire to take more than what he’s already been given.

And if his god wasn’t sleeping beside him at this very moment, he…

The ghost king forces his eye shut, taking a deep breath.

They’re the wrong thoughts, for the wrong time.

And who knows if there will ever be a right one.

When the next morning arrives, a tentative sort of peace falls around Puqi Shrine.

Shuo wrangles Qi Rong and the children under an annoyed but watchful eye, with Lang Qianqiu ‘helping,’ if it could even be called that. More like observing and offering unhelpful suggestions.

And each time he comes in and out of the shrine, he sees the two of them together.

Shuo has had the time in the last few weeks to observe the crown prince. To learn more about his personality and mannerisms.

But he’s never had the chance to see the way he is around Hua Cheng.

The difference is subtle, but…noticeable.

There’s a slightly more relaxed set to his shoulders. He smiles often, and laughs more.

There are moments when, as Shuo watches Hua Cheng help Xie Lian make some ‘adjustments’ to the soup from the night before, when he remembers…

‘I’d love to see him.’

That was what Xie Lian had said the afternoon before the mid autumn festival. Shuo hadn’t thought much of it at the time—after all, it’s just a phrase, but…

Watching them together now—it makes him wonder.

Morning turns into afternoon, and sometime after lunch, the other inhabitants of the shrine choose (or in Qi Rong’s case, he’s left outside tied to a tree) to make their way to the village to scrounge up some lunch.

The alternative, after all, would be eating Xie Lian’s “improved” stew, which no one seemed to be leaping upon the opportunity to do.

In any case, Xie Lian doesn’t mind—sweeping the floors of the shrine while chatting back and forth with the Ghost King—

That’s when he hears it.

It’s in the distance still—but with sensitive ears like Xie Lian, he can hear farmers whispering among themselves from the bottom of the hill.

“You ever seen a set of young ladies like that?”

“Lookin’ mighty fine! Rich, too!”

Xie Lian stops, a basket in hand, tilting his head.

“…San Lang,” he murmurs, “it sounds like someone’s here.”

Hua Cheng doesn’t look up, working on washing the dishes from their lunch in the sink. “Does it?”

Xie Lian is too focused on the mystery to notice the hint of tension in his voice.

“Yes, I think—?”

/Knock, knock!/

The sudden and insistent knocking at the front door of Puqi shrine cuts him off, and the god quickly turns his attention to it, moving to answer.

It’s strange, after all—who would be coming here?

The moment he answers the door, a familiar voice solves that mystery.

“Your highness!”

The prince stops, his eyebrows raising gently with surprise.

“…Lady Windmaster?”

Shi Qingxuan beams in greeting, pushing the hood of her cloak back as she steps through the threshold of Puqi Shrine.

“The one and only!”

Which means the other ‘beautiful’ and ‘rich’ young woman traveling with her is most likely…

Another dark haired figure stands on the threshold of the shrine, seeming far more hesitant.

Ming Yi.

Who, to Xie Lian’s understanding, hasn’t seen Hua Cheng since she was revealed to be a traitor.

The Earth Master remains frozen in the doorway, all while Hua Cheng remains in front of the sink, calmly wiping the suds of soap from his hands with a dish cloth.

Shi Qingxuan seems to notice him first, leaping backwards with surprise, nearly knocking Ming Yi over in the process.

“Crimson Rain Sought Flower!” She cries, pulling her fan out of the bodice of her dress. “What are you doing here?!”

(Ming Yi grimaces, clearly disapproving of how Shi Qingxuan chooses to deal with her female form’s lack of pockets.)

“He’s my guest,” Xie Lian answers first, and with one quick sidestep, he’s placed himself between the calamity and the wind master.

Hua Cheng smiles at Shi Qingxuan, relatively relaxed as she tosses the dish cloth aside.

“I’m surprised by the hostile tone, Lady Windmaster. I was on the impression that we last saw one another on good terms.”

“I—Well—” Shi Qingxuan pauses, lowering her fan.

“…I suppose we did,” she admits, her expression quickly going from wary to friendly in the space of only a few moments. “It’s good to see you again!”

Hua Cheng nods—but all of the warmth in his expression saps away the moment he turns his gaze to the earth master.

“Get out.”

Ming Yi’s eyebrows knit together as she glares, crossing her arms over her chest. “Coming here wasn’t my idea!”

“Yeah!” Shi Qingxuan agrees, shifting her stance in front of the earth master, similar to what Xie Lian did when Shi Qingxuan raised her fan to Hua Cheng before.

“Ming-Xiong is here to help me out! Besides, you shouldn’t be mad at her for the stuff that happened before, the heavenly emperor was the one who asked Ming-Xiong to do it! What was she supposed to do, say no?!”

Hua Cheng’s stare doesn’t become any less frigid.

“Yes.”

“…Well…” Shi Qingxuan pauses, her mouth hanging open, clearly not having expected that answer. “That’s just…unfair!”

Xie Lian sighs, not seeing this conversation going anywhere productive. “Lady Wind Master, what brings you and Lady Earth Master to visit?”

Shi Qingxuan looks back towards him, clearly reminded of her original purpose. “Ah, yes, I—!”

Just then, a voice from outside calls in.

“Oh, THAT’S the slutty Lady Wind Master everyone is always talking about?! HA! She really DOES have a nice rack!”

“…”

“…”

“…”

“…”

Xie Lian pales, horrified by his cousin’s language, Hua Cheng’s expression remains unchanged, glaring at Ming Yi, and Ming Yi, well—

She looks vaguely angry, but in a far more conflicted way than Crimson Rain.

Shi Qingxuan…

Her smile remains stubbornly in place.

“Your highness, who is that?”

Before Xie Lian can answer, Qi Rong, in an obliviously self destructive effort, cries—

“Don’t you recognize me, you stupid bitch?! I’m the NIGHT TOURING GREEN LANTERN!”

Xie Lian’s face falls into his hands, and Shi Qingxuan turns around.

“Just a second,” her voice is as cheerful as ever as she steps back out the door, “I’ll be right back!”

It slams shut behind her, and before Xie Lian can say another word—

He hears the sound of several aggressive smacks.

And Qi Rong, whose only ‘talent’ seems to be having a somewhat high pain tolerance, wailing and shouting with pain.

“Haven’t you heard, the only men who call women things like that are the ones who could never get a woman in bed to begin with?!”

There’s another thud, followed by a sharp scream, implying that she just kicked the green ghost somewhere particularly painful.

“Just say you’ve never satisfied a woman before, it’ll TAKE LESS TIME!”

“Who cares if she’s satisfi—?! MOTHERFUCKER, THAT HURTS, YOU—OUCH!”

Funny, it’s not actually that different from what Pei said, during the mid autumn festival feast.

Honestly, Xie Lian finds General Pei and Shi Qingxuan similar in some respects, even if those similarities are limited.

Making the fact that the two don’t get along far more ironic

“There,” Shi Qingxuan steps back inside, brushing off her dress as she steps back inside, “Sorry about that, where were we? I—”

She stops again, and at first, Xie Lian is worried his cousin might have done some other idiotic, offensive thing, but—

“Oh, have you been cooking?”

Xie Lian pauses, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Oh, well, ah…yes, I made that.”

The pot of stew is covered, still sitting on the stove—but the smell of it is far more appealing than it was the day before. With Hua Cheng’s help, it’s almost tempting.

“Really?”

Shi Qingxuan’s eyes widen, intrigued. “I’ve never had something that was prepared by royalty! Could I try?”

“Oh,” Xie Lian blinks, somewhat hesitant. “Well, I…”

Hua Cheng lifts up his own bowl, which he hasn’t quite finished. “You should both try some.”

Ming Yi seems wary.

After all, Xie Lian seems hesitant to let them try it.

“…Is it any good?”

Hua Cheng makes a show of ladling himself a large spoonful, swallowing it with ease.

“It’s delicious,” he replies calmly. “Very flavorful.”

“…San Lang’s been helping me practice,” Xie Lian offers.

“It’s definitely better than what I used to make.”

Shi Qingxuan seems satisfied by Xie Lian’s word alone, hurrying over to ladle out a bowl for herself, as well as Ming Yi. “Oh, good, I’ve been starving all day! I’ve been so busy lately, it makes me work up an appetite!”

“Being busy seems to agree with you,” Hua Cheng comments, taking another bite of his soup. When Shi Qingxuan looks up at him curiously, he adds— “You’re looking very…healthy.”

Xie Lian tilts his head to the side, because it’s…an interesting way to phrase a compliment.

Ming Yi seems irritated by it, sending Hua Cheng a sharp look, but…

The ghost king did take a bite himself, right in front of them—and she’s never been one to deny a meal.

So, she takes a seat beside Shi Qingxuan at the table, grabbing a spoon.

“So,” Shi Qingxuan starts.

“I came to see you, because—” She pauses, taking a bite at the same time as Ming Yi, swallowing quickly.

“…”

“…”

Xie Lian glances around, confused.

Why did everything get so quiet all of the sudden?

/BAM!/

Ming Yi collapses against the table face first.

Her bowl rolls to the side, nearly falling to the floor with a clatter—but Hua Cheng, helpful as he is, catches it before it can splatter everywhere and make a mess.

“I…” Shi Qingxuan’s voice sound very different now, rasping and choking, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I…”

“…Lady Wind Master?” Xie Lian questions, concerned.

Her pallor has turned a violent shade of green. Xie Lian can’t see as much—but even her aura of spiritual power seems to be trembling from a sudden disturbance.

“…MING-XIONG!” She cries, scrambling to her feet.

“YOU HAVE TO GET UP! OPEN YOUR EYES!”

“Lady Wind Master—!”

“YOU HAVE TO PULL THROUGH THIS!” Tears pour down her cheeks, dripping from her chin. “I NEED YOU! I CAN’T DO THIS ALONE!”

“Shi Qingxuan!”

“PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER! YOU’RE THE—!”

“That is a BROOM!”

The same broom that Xie Lian was using to sweep the floors only a few minutes ago, but now, Shi Qingxuan is clutching it against her chest, shaking it as through she’s trying to wake the dead.

“San Lang…” Xie Lian mumbles, looking around anxiously. “What’s wrong with them?!”

“Mmm…” The calamity hums, watching the other two immortal beings, one collapsed, the other flailing around with a broomstick. “Bad taste.”

Xie Lian shakes his head, glancing back at the other two, shocked.

…Was the stew really that bad? But Hua Cheng had an entire bowl!

Even if the two of them each only managed to swallow one bite—it takes the better part of half an hour for the two heavenly officials to recover.

When Ming Yi eventually lives his head, he’s returned to his male form—and he’s staring sourly at Hua Cheng.

“You’re a sick bastard, you know that?”

Hua Cheng quirks one eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest. “For what?”

The earth master opens his mouth to point out exactly what Crimson Rain had done, but—

He doesn’t dare insult the crown prince’s cooking in his presence.

Which places him in the annoying position of closing his mouth, glowering silently.

/BANG!/

Shi Qingxuan smacks her hand on the table, still faintly green as she rises to her feet, swaying back and forth unsteadily.

“That…that was…very rich, your highness!” She rasps.

“Very flavorful, like…like Hua Cheng said! I-I think I’m full, though!”

Xie Lian almost wishes she would just say the food was horrible, that would be easier than listening to her lying through her teeth—through he supposes he appreciates the effort.

“…You were trying to say something before?” He prompts quietly, hoping to move on from the debacle entirely, and Shi Qingxuan seems relieved to do the same.

“Right!” She exclaims, sitting back down at the table. “I came to ask for your help!”

Xie Lian pauses, surprised.

“…Me?”

After all, few have ever asked him for anything of such a nature—knowing his bad luck is likely to ruin any endeavor before it begins.

“You were the first person I thought to ask!”

But still, Shi Qingxuan has helped him so often recently, he agrees without question.

“Of course, I’ll help with whatever the issue is—but what seems to be the issue?”

“Oh, I’ll explain everything,” Shi Qingxuan bobs her head. “But why don’t the two of you take a seat, first? It might take a moment to explain.”

Hua Cheng and Xie Lian take their seats opposite Shi Qingxuan and Ming Yi—and the moment they do, the room suddenly goes dark, lit by only one candle in the center of the table. A cold wind blows through, thunder rumbling in the distance.

“It starts like this…”

Hua Cheng looks around, raising an eyebrow. And while Xie Lian can’t see the darkening of the room, he does notice the wind and the sudden change in temperature.

“…Lady Wind Master, what are you doing?”

“Oh?” Shi Qingxuan blinks, pausing in her story. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…the wind, the thunder—what’s with all of that?”

“Oh,” the Wind Master shrugs, explaining earnestly— “I was trying to create some atmosphere!”

“…That really doesn’t seem necessary…”

“Ah, well,” Shi Qingxuan waves that off, after all, it’s all details.

“At least the mood is set.” With a flick of her fingers, all of the windows and doors of the shrine are sealed as well, which makes the situation even more curious.

What has Shi Qingxuan so worried about being overheard?

“Your highness…have you ever heard of a Jinx Monster?”

At the very same moment, far from the halls of Puqi Shrine, in a very different setting, a Heavenly Official is facing a very different obstacle.

Ling Wen is not particularly fond of running unnecessary errands. Much less of being a messenger, as a civil god of his rank.

He tilts his head back, using his fingers to shield his eyes as he squints at the sun overhead.

It’s humid here, the air thick with moisture, cicadas buzzing obnoxiously all around. Winter hasn’t come around to frost them out for another seventeen years.

“…Mister?” One of the local children stops, a basket of barley balanced on top of her head, staring up at the unfamiliar man, clad in black robes. “Are you lookin’ for someone?”

Ling Wen stares down at the child, his brow pinched.

He’s never had to deal with children before.

Is the term ‘take me to your leader’ too complicated to explain?

Everything about this place is irritating him. The tall grasses are like a breeding ground for bugs, gnats and mosquitos all around, and there’s sweat beading at the back of his neck—

“He’s here to see me.”

The woman who speaks has the voice of a young lady—high pitched and delicate, which is all together contradicted by the manner in which she carries herself.

Spine straight, shoulders thrown back, chin raised.

She’s neither tall, nor short, with a slim frame and calm demeanor.

Her skin has long since been sun kissed from working in the fields—but her features are still rather refined. Full lips and clear eyes, with a dark, heavy curtain of hair falling down her back.

And, of course, a bamboo hat sits atop her head, shielding her eyes from the sun.

“…Your majesty, Lady Rain Master,” Ling Wen acknowledges her calmly, bowing his head slightly with deference.

“I am no longer ‘your majesty’, Ling Wen.” The goddess corrects him gently.

She has a careful way of speaking, her words never coming out rushed.

Slowly, she looks him over—and before Ling Wen can make some droning statement explaining how royalty still retain their formal titles after the dissolution of their countries, she comments—

“I hope you aren’t wearing that form on my account.”

The civil god pauses.

“…Pardon?”

The veil on the Rain Master’s hat blows gently in the breeze. The white, transparent material does almost nothing to hide her face from view, but, as Ling Wen now understands—

It likely keeps the bugs out.

“If that is the form you prefer, I don’t mind,” Yushi Huang explains. “But if you are wearing it as a means of obtaining respect, or because you expect to be engaging in combat in my territory—”

(It is his more powerful form, after all.)

“—those concerns would be unnecessary.”

Of course, Ling Wen has little concern about getting into a skirmish with a group of farmers.

However…when outside the heavens on official business…he does often use his male form.

For precisely the reason that Yushi Huang described.

Which, Ling Wen supposes, when dealing with a fellow goddess…

Perhaps it is unnecessary.

His eyes flicker around, uncertain—

But the Rain Master shakes her head, assuring him, “The people here have seen me change forms often. You won’t frighten them.”

Frightening them wasn’t really his concern—Ling Wen would simply rather avoid causing a scene, but he nods.

In the blink of an eye, she’s back in her original form—and even still, her stature is several inches taller than that of the Rain Master.

"There," Yushi Huang smiles, a curtain of dark hair swaying in the breeze as she turns around, gesturing for the civil goddess to follow. "Come."

Ling Wen is hesitant at first, scrolls clutched under her arms--but after another mosquito attempts to bite her, she follows.

Unlike every other heavenly official from this term (and many prior), Yushi Huang simply never made a permanent move to the Heavens after her ascension.

Rather, in the millennia since, she has spent her time among the descendants of the Kingdom of Yushi.

Having known that, and that the village in which she resided was comprised mainly of farmers, Ling Wen would have expected her to live in a small hut, or something of the like.

And nine centuries ago, that would have been true.

Now…she arrives to a rather surprising sight.

The Temple of the Rain Master—her first and largest place of worship—is not nearly so ostentatious as temples for other heavenly officials, but it’s far larger than what Ling Wen anticipated, and well maintained at that.

Yushi Huang glances back over her shoulder.

“You seem surprised.”

Ling Wen means to deny it at first, but quickly gives up. “I wasn’t expecting such a remote place to host such a grand temple.”

“Mmm…” The Rain Master turns her chin away, and when she lifts her skirts to climb the steps, Ling Wen notices her bare feet.

“I thought it was unnecessary at first, but the mortals use it for administrative purposes, and to house refugees during times of flooding. I suppose it’s useful.”

Ling Wen arches an eyebrow, glancing around as they step inside.

Most temples are hollow places.

Vast halls of wealth and prayer, hushed and quiet.

The Temple of the Rain Master could not stand in greater contrast.

Of course, there is a divine statue—a rather fine likeness, actually—along with a recreation of her famous Ox, but any resemblance ends there.

There’s an altar, but it’s being used as lounging space by a large barn cat. Scrolls are scattered on tables all around, marking out numbers from the harvest. Song birds dart between nests among the rafters, and despite the place seeming well maintained, vines climb the walls.

Yushi Huang strides through the main hall, slipping her hat from the top of her head, allowing it to hang about her shoulders as she acknowledges the farmers and children milling about, leading Ling Wen to the entrance of the private section of the temple, through a side door.

“You’re comfortable with one of your temples being used that way?” Ling Wen questions, arching an eyebrow.

Yushi Huang’s private quarters are equally large, but far more modest than what would be expected of a goddess or princess.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

She hangs her hat up by the door, moving over to tend to a pot of tea left to steep. "It's their temple. They built it, they keep it up. They should do with it as they will."

It's an...interesting perspective.

Ling Wen can't say she's heard anyone other than Xie Lian speak in such terms.

"Well," She clears her throat. "I suppose I should get to why I'm--"

She stops, staring at the table, where Yushi Huang has set a plate.

Steaming hot rice, vegetables, and meat.

"Have a seat."

The Civil Goddess complies, however reluctantly. "I really don't need--"

"I can tell when someone hasn't been sleeping or had a proper meal." Yushi Huang shrugs, pouring herself a cup of tea. "We can discuss why you're here while you eat."

Ling Wen stares, feeling rather...

...Ruffled.

After all, she isn't typically in the position where she's allowed to take breaks, or to feel tired. The implication that she might need rest feels almost like an existential threat.

Coming from a young woman holding a cup of tea and wearing no shoes.

Still, she's a guest in someone else's house, and it feels rude to decline.

As such, she takes a seat--however stiff her posture may be.

"I'm here on orders from the emperor, regarding the girl Banyue."

Yushi Huang sips her tea calmly, inhaling the aroma before she replies.

"And what business has the emperor tasked you with?"

"He's commanded that I take the young lady into my custody and return her to the heavens," Ling Wen replies easily.

The corner of the Rain Master's lips quirks up into a small, knowing smile.

"May I see the order?"

Ling Wen hesitates, and the Rain Master nods, having her suspicions clearly confirmed.

"The emperor didn't send you."

The civil goddess stares at the fork in her hand, her expression unchanged.

"Perhaps he hoped such an old friend would honor a simple request."

"Mmm..." Yushi Huang sets her cup of tea aside. "I admire your commitment to your story, but the emperor does not have friends. He has subjects. And I am the eldest among them."

She might physically look younger than Ling Wen, but the gaze that settles upon her feels ancient.

"He knows me enough to understand that I would not turn that girl over unless forced."

She doesn't need to say the rest--it's implied.

If Jun Wu meant to force Yushi Huang to do something, he would have sent Shi Wudu, who is far more formidable than Ling Wen in combat.

Yushi Huang might not look much like a warrior--but the sacred blade hanging on the wall behind her tells a very different story.

"Pei sent you," The Rain Master concludes. "You are a kind friend, but he has wasted your time."

Ling Wen finds herself fighting impending fatigue.

"Is there no room for negotiation?"

"No." Yushi Huang's voice is kind, it rings with sympathy--but it leaves absolutely no room for doubt that she means what she says. "If he would like to discuss the issue of Banyue, he is welcome to come and make a case whenever he likes."

Which of course means that he'll never do it. Pei might seem like a man who faces all of his battles head on--and generally, he does--but in this case, he has turned nine centuries of avoidance into somewhat of an art form.

"Why be so determined to protect her?"

"I told Shi Qingxuan that I would," the goddess replies simply. "And I understand that she has an important relationship with the Crown Prince of Xianle. These reasons are enough."

She doesn't have formal alliances with either--so Ling Wen can't fathom the point of her efforts.

"...Well, if you're waiting for Pei to come here, you might as well resolve yourself to have that girl in your care until the end of time," Ling Wen grumbles, taking a bite of her food.

And, goddamn it all, it's very good.

Tender, flavorful. The perfect temperature.

Ling Wen glowers as she takes another bite.

"Pei is uncomfortable with women who threaten his ego." She grumbles, swallowing down a particularly buttery slice of beef, her eyes rolling back into her head.

And, to her shock...

"Mmm...I don't think that's true."

Yushi Huang actually speaks up in Pei's defense.

"Pei would not be such close friends with you if he was threatened by a strong woman."

Ling Wen pauses, her eyebrows knitting together as she glances at Yushi Huang from the corner of her eye.

"That isn't the same."

After all, Pei doesn’t view Ling Wen in the same way that he does other women:

As potential romantic partners.

Yushi Huang sets her tea to the side, using her palms as leverage to hop up and sit on the edge of the kitchen counter, beads in her dress clinking as she does so.

“I understand that you’re different,” she murmurs.

As she speaks, her skirts shift ever so slightly from the change in position. Exposing her right leg in part. The shape of her calf, the bend of her knee. The barest hint of delicate skin leading to her thigh.

Ling Wen finds her eye locked on that spot for the briefest of moments, unable to stop herself—and when she looks up, she meets the Rain Master’s gaze, meaning—

Yushi Huang knew exactly what she meant when she chose the word ‘different.’

The civil goddess quickly looks away.

Her expression remains smooth—but her heart is beating unsteadily with self consciousness.

The Rain Master, by contrast, is completely at ease.

As should be expected, Ling Wen supposes. She’s lived in the countryside for centuries, and likely has no care for propriety.

“Even so, think of Xuan Ji,” Yushi Huang continues. “She isn’t a meek woman in the least, and she never was—and Pei had a relationship with her anyway.”

An affair that he’s regretted ever since, but Ling Wen supposes there is some merit to her point.

“He still won’t come here.”

“I know,” The Rain Master agrees. “But that doesn’t mean he isn’t aware of the fact that he could. You can tell him as much when you return.”

And Yushi Huang is far more aware of the reason why than Ling Wen. Possibly more so than anyone.

After all, she’s known Pei the longest.

The Rain Master remembers what the general was like as a young man.

A very young, very mortal soldier. One with all of the talent in the world, and the weight of it upon his shoulders.

A weight she too had to carry, however briefly, when she was far too young.

Still, she keeps her attention on Ling Wen, whose mood has rapidly soured since learning there was no hope of returning with Banyue in tow.

“General Pei isn’t unfair,” the Rain Master assures her quietly. “He won’t blame you.”

Ling Wen doesn’t look at her, staring at her plate.

Whether she likes it or not, she knows that her demeanor has become somewhat similar to that of a sulking child.

“…I don’t like failing.” She admits flatly.

Even in the most seemingly minor of tasks, she takes failure to perform rather personally.

“Everyone fails sometimes.”

Ling Wen clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth, shaking her head. “Not me.”

“Then people might understand if you come back empty handed, once or twice.”

“I’m sure that’s an easy point of view to have when you’re hiding out in the mortal realm—” She stops herself.

“…That was rude,” Ling Wen mutters, shaking her head. “I apologize.”

Yushi Huang swings her feet slightly where they dangle over the edge of the counter, tilting her head to the side.

“I don’t mind,” the Rain Master replies. “But I don’t think you see your position clearly.”

Ling Wen glances back at her, raising an eyebrow. Despite claiming not to be hungry, her plate is already half gone.

“That would be news to me.”

Yushi Huang shrugs, reaching for her cup of tea once more.

“I’ve been around for quite some time.”

Of course, Ling Wen is aware.

Very few Heavenly Officials have been around as long as Pei—and Yushi Huang is the only goddess among them.

“In all that time, I’ve never seen anyone as indispensable to the Heavens as you.” The Rain Master explains. “That’s a position with few obvious disadvantages.”

Meaning that she can afford to fail every now and again, so long as her services remain unparalleled and necessary.

Ling Wen finds some small amount of comfort in that—but there’s something else to Yushi Huang’s statement that catches her attention.

“…Does that mean there’s a disadvantage that isn’t so obvious?” Ling Wen questions, looking up at her.

The Rain Master stares back at Ling Wen, her gaze unwavering.

“Being indispensable to a powerful man means he will never get rid of you, but…”

Her lips gradually curve downward into a frown—and the next words out of her mouth send chills down Ling Wen’s spine.

And in the weeks and months that follow, they will haunt her.

“But a powerful man who is dependent upon you is not likely to let you go, either.”

Back in Puqi Shrine, however, Xie Lian is experiencing a very different form of haunting.

“…A Jinx Monster?” He replies slowly, rubbing his chin as he wracks his mind, pouring through countless memories. “You mean…like a Venerable of Empty Words?”

“Yes!” Shi Qingxuan whispers quickly, still rather pale, even in the dark—and clearly afraid of being overheard. “You’ve encountered one before?!”

Xie Lian blinks, rounding up the incidents in his head.

“Twice, I’m afraid.”

Everyone in the room is staring at him by now, and Xie Lian can sense it—so the prince takes a deep breath.

“Many centuries ago, if I didn’t have a loom or had to lay low for some reason, I would take to busking.”

This isn’t surprising, lots of people know that about the prince

“One day I was sword swallowing, and I heard the most peculiar story.”

Shi Qingxuan is too ashamed to admit that she had heard tales of the crown prince sword swallowing, but…

She thought it had been in more of a figurative sense, though now it’s obvious that wasn’t possible.

“It was a about a young lady in the city who was being targeted by a malicious spirit,” Xie Lian recalls. “She was a renowned beauty, but her family had a poor reputation. As such, she had difficulty securing a marriage.”

Shi Qingxuan frowns. “That seems horribly unfair.”

“If that girl’s family had done something wrong, then why should she be the one to pay for it?”

“People are unfair that way,” Hua Cheng comments.

Shi Qingxuan misses the sharp look he seems in Ming Yi’s direction, but the earth master seems more invested in Xie Lian’s story.

“Yes,” the prince agrees. “It was unfair—but she was unwilling to become a concubine. With no education to fall back upon, she decided to make her living by entering into beauty contests.”

The Wind Master raises an eyebrow. “Can you really make a living that way?”

“If you’re talented enough,” Xie Lian agrees. “Which she was. She had managed to build quite a name for herself, and was likely on track to secure a profitable marriage—and that was when the creature attacked.”

Xie Lian can still remember how terrified she was, begging for help.

“Every time she would be preparing for a pageant, a voice would suddenly call out—telling her that she would trip and fall, or that she would be doomed to lose to another contestant. At first, she blamed nerves and stressed—but then, she really did begin losing.”

“That doesn’t seem like the worst thing in the world,” Hua Cheng muses, leaning back in his chair lazily.

“For a young woman defendant on such a thing, it was,” Xie Lian sighs. “And the spirit’s threats only became worse overtime. Eventually—it became violent.”

A venerable of empty words thrives on misery, after all—and it will escalate it’s threats until it’s victim is robbed of all happiness, lingering in a pit of fear until…eventually…they succumb.

More often than not, they end up taking their own lives or perishing in other ways.

“She became so desperate, she ended up seeking help from a cultivator—and that’s where I came in.”

Hua Cheng smiles faintly, recalling how quickly Xie Lian offered his services when Mr. Mo took to the streets a couple of days before, complaining about the fetal spirit.

Shi Qingxuan leans forward, hopeful.

“Did you manage to help her?”

“Um…” Xie Lian wrinkles his nose, thinking about it. “Yes.”

The Wind Master brightens. “That’s—!”

“—But also no.”

Her face immediately falls. “…Huh?”

“Well…” Xie Lian scratches the side of his neck.

“In order to investigate the case, I posed under her identity and participated in the Beauty Pageant myself,” he explains, not seeing the way that Ming Yi and Shi Qingxuan’s jaws drop to the floor. “We had similar features, so I was able to pull it off on stage.”

Hua Cheng, however, doesn’t seem surprised in the least.

“…Wouldn’t your height and frame have been an issue?” Ming Yi questions, looking Xie Lian over with disbelief.

“Not necessarily,” Shi Qingxuan shakes her head. “Ling Wen is taller than him, you know.”

“She is,” Xie Lian agrees, not particularly offended by the assertion. After all, he was always shorter than Mu Qing and Feng Xin growing up—but neither of them could either beat him in a fight, either. “And I was smaller back then.”

For was more difficult to come by, after all.

The mention of that draws a frown from Hua Cheng, but Xie Lian carries on as if he’s said little of note.

“I took her place in the contest—and when the creature appeared to taunt me, believing I was her, I was able to attack and capture it.”

No small feat, but Xie Lian would argue that the venerable of empty words in this case was particularly weak, targeting peasants rather than figures with grand destinies, it’s usual prey.

“But then…you did help her, right?”

Xie Lian winces.

“I did capture the spirit, but…”

It’s honestly embarrassing, when he recalls his original task, but…

“Even after I revealed my identity and the original woman came to participate in the contest…the judges still chose me for first place instead.”

Shi Qingxuan chokes, half from amusement, half from surprise.

“Since I had already captured the venerable of empty words…the woman I was working for began to think she was permanently cursed…and she proceeded to have a breakdown,” Xie Lian sighs, shaking his head. “It’s very difficult to protect mortals from creatures like that.”

Shi Qingxuan doesn’t seem particularly comforted by that statement, but she nods.

“…And…what about the second time you encountered?”

“Oh,” Xie Lian blinks owlishly, his shackle gleaming in the candlelight. “That one attached itself to me.”

Silence falls over the group.

“…So…they can attach themselves to heavenly officials?” Shi Qingxuan questions in a small voice, and Xie Lian nods—his expression surprisingly calm.

“Yes—but I found it much easier to deal with in that case.”

“Really?” Hua Cheng questions, watching him closely. “How so?”

"Well, it first appeared after I had built myself some shelter," Xie Lian explains leaning back and crossing his arms. "It shouted in my ear that my tent would collapse in two days."

Shi Qingxuan is biting her thumbnail anxiously.

"And...what did you do?"

"Well," Xie Lian tilts his head to the side. "I was excited. I told the spirit that was twice as long as my last tent had lasted."

Ming Yi bites back a snort as Hua Cheng's expression darkens.

After all, as Xie Lian explains--his luck had been such that the venerable of empty words had little means of making it worse.

More often than not, before it could even come up with something horrible to tell him, Xie Lian would end up encountering some horrible luck on his own.

At certain points, he even enjoyed the evil spirit's company. It had been months since he encountered another person, and he found it's silly little predictions amusing. Sometimes before it even spoke, Xie Lian would ask if it had something new to say.

"Eventually...it gave up."

Xie Lian is a little sheepish about the fact that he was actually disappointed when the spirit left. It was a nice break to the daily monotony, however briefly it lasted.

The room is filled with silences of different kinds.

Shi Qingxuan is simply stunned, and almost...jealous.

Ming Yi's expression is carefully schooled, as if he's more than aware that he'll be punished for reacting with amusement, and Hua Cheng...

He simply watches Xie Lian, his expression silent and tense.

"But...why are you asking me about jinx monsters, Lady Wind Master?"

"Ah..." Shi Qingxuan smiles tiredly, rubbing the back of her neck. "Well, you see...I've encountered one recently, and I wasn't sure how to deal with it."

Xie Lian arches an eyebrow. "Is it harassing one of your worshipers?"

"No," she grimaces, shaking her head.

"It attached itself to me."

Xie Lian's eyebrows arch sharply.

Now, it isn't out of the realm of possibility for someone like him to encounter a venerable of empty words. He has three cursed shackles, leaving himself vulnerable to such things--even if he won't die.

But for a fully fledged heavenly official like Shi Qingxuan, one at full power, no less--that's a rather bold move.

"...It must be particularly strong then," Xie Lian frowns. "You might just have to wait for it to realize it can't make a meal out of you--then it'll move on."

Shi Qingxuan winces, shaking her head. “Maybe that would be true if I had first encountered it has a Heavenly official, but…”

She trails off with a sigh.

“I met this creature when I was a mortal.”

That catches Xie Lian’s attention, just as Hua Cheng grimaces.

After all, he remembers.

Meeting a little boy disguised as a girl, cheerfully promising to introduce him to the ‘Shi’ family in exchange for sweets.

The Wind Master sucks in a deep breath—and she begins to tell the story.

The first story she ever knew—and the most frightening.

“When I was born—my parents gave out food to the poor, they…”

It all seems so ironic, now.

“They wanted to bring me good luck,” Shi Qingxuan mutters, her lips turning up into a tired, bittersweet ghost of a smile. “That was how they came across a cultivator.”

Ming Yi leans his elbow on the table, watching her closely, his gaze distant.

“He was among the homeless who came to take the donated food—and he offered to tell my fortune. That’s when…” Shi Qingxuan’s smile. “He told them not to throw any feasts for me.”

Of course, Shi Qingxuan’s parents had been shocked by such a request. After all—a second son to secure an ancient family line, why shouldn’t they celebrate?

But Xie Lian immediately sees the problem at stake, given the mention of a venerable of empty words.

The creature must have sensed a great destiny in Shi Qingxuan’s future and staked claim over the child at birth.

“And my parents…they didn’t listen. They feasted for two days and two nights, setting off firecrackers in the city.”

The prince grimaces.

‘The higher they rise, the further they fall’ is a phrase for a reason.

To a venerable of empty words, it’s like advertising a possible feast.

“But when my father began to make a toast…a voice shouted out, ‘Wretched beginning, wretched end.’”

That marked the start of it.

The story Shi Qingxuan tells from then on is something of a horror.

The cultivator advised her parents to raise her up as a girl as a means of hiding Shi Qingxuan from the creature. To never let Shi Qingxuan shine—but rather, that the child must live an unremarkable life.

Then, she might be safe.

Less than four years later, Shi Qingxuan’s parents were dead, slain by robbers—only sparing the children in the house because they didn’t know they were there.

One of her earliest memories is of her brother pulling her from a hiding spot.

Telling her that it was safe now. That the scary men were gone.

He carried her from their family home with his hand covering her eyes—because he didn’t want Shi Qingxuan to see.

And she never did see her parents again. When they returned to the house later, they were gone.

Along with any sign of what had happened.

After that, it was only Shi Qingxuan and her brother.

And the new rules that they had to live by.

The new name she had to answer to. The veils she had to wear when traveling outside. Only ever allowed to play freely in their courtyard.

Shi Qingxuan had been so miserable back then. Yearning to make friends. To be as happy and loud as she wanted to be.

Ironically, looking back on it—miserable as she was, those years were among the happiest of her mortal life.

When her brother was handling the family business—he was still busy, but they were together every day. Even if Shi Qingxuan was bored—she was never alone.

All of that seemed to change after he came.

A handsome young cultivator, going by the name ‘Bolin.’

Later, her brother would explain that the cultivator had told him that removing the creature from Shi Qingxuan’s path was impossible. That their best option was to follow the original advice.

But Shi Wudu refused to accept that—and that was when he decided on a new path.

If he couldn’t save Shi Qingxuan as a mortal—then he’d simply become a god, instead.

He made arrangements for the business—and then he took Shi Qingxuan away from Qinghe, off to study cultivation under a master on a nearby mountain.

And from then on—it was lonely.

He would train from sunrise to sunset—and Shi Qingxuan would wait in the village at the foot of the mountain, day in and day out.

But one day—everything changed.

“After we had been on the mountain for almost a year…gege lost track of time—and he was late getting back.”

Which was unusual for him—after all, he’d never been late before.

“I started to bring food up the mountain for him, but…” Shi Qingxuan pauses, clearly sheepish now, recalling the incident. “I had no way of realizing something was watching me, so I…stopped to relieve myself.”

Which, unfortunately, revealed to the waiting Venerable of Empty Words that Shi Qingxuan was, in fact, the second son that the spirit had claimed all those years before.

“When I continued down the mountain, someone screamed that I was going to fall, and…I did.”

It asked Shi Qingxuan for her birthday, and she gave it. It asked for her name—

And she gave that too.

As she recounts the details, Ming Yi’s face slowly shifts into a mask of frustration.

“Why would you answer it?”

Shi Qingxuan bites her lip, looking at him anxiously.

“…Do you really think my brother told me what was hunting me?” She mutters, shaking her head. “I was…maybe eleven years old when this happened. I didn’t even know what a jinx monster was, and no one would ever tell me. I…just assumed it was some sort of stalker. A human one.”

Xie Lian’s heart aches sympathetically.

After all, while the circumstances were far different, and he was far more capable of defending himself than an eleven year old child—

He’s been stalked before, too.

And in those frightening, helpless moments—you want to appease them.

Shi Qingxuan had likely thought that giving the voice what it wanted was the best means of survival.

“…And you couldn’t have just lied?” Ming Yi mutters—to which Xie Lian replies—

“When you’re so young and frightened—you don’t always remember to lie.”

Of course—Xie Lian wouldn’t have recommended that Shi Qingxuan blurt out her actual name or birthday either—

But frightened children operate on reflex, not logic.

“…And after that, it started all over again,” the Wind Master explains, biting her lip.

There was no end to it.

Every waking moment of every day, she was being hunted. Tortured.

The Wind Master pauses in the middle of recounting the story, her expression twisting with hesitation—because she knows what they’re all thinking.

She’s a heavenly official now. What does she have to fear?

“…I wasn’t like my brother,” She admits, lowering her head. “I’ve never been the strong one.”

The muscles in Ming Yi’s jaw work silently.

“I knew it was only a matter of time before it pushed me to the edge—and so did he. I wasn’t going to make it much longer.”

After all—for a spirit that feeds on terror and pain, someone easily frightened is a perfect meal. And in that time, Shi Qingxuan was being quickly consumed.

“It wasn’t until my brother ascended and brought me to the heavens with him that it stopped,” she recalls.

Even then, it took time for Shi Qingxuan to believe that it was really over. But when her brother placed her in the middle court, showering her with treasures, and she eventually ascended herself…

She began to feel safe again.

She began to /believe/ that she was safe.

“I had always assumed that the venerable of empty words had given up or died out, but…” Her expression turns grim—and now, the reason for the Wind Master’s sudden appearance in Puqi Shrine becomes clear.

“Last night, a voice told me I would never see my brother again.”

Xie Lian’s stomach sinks.

“And…you’re sure it’s—?”

“I couldn’t forget that voice, your highness,” Shi Qingxuan mutters, shaking her head. “Not ever.”

Which presents a difficult situation all around.

“…San Lang,” Xie Lian turns to him. “Have you encountered one before?”

Hua Cheng remains silent for a moment, then he turns his attention to his god, answering his question calmly;

“Not personally—but I know someone who has.”

Xie Lian waits for him to offer up more details—but when the Ghost King isn’t forthcoming, he asks—

“And what do you think of them?”

“…” This time, the pause doesn’t seem to stem from reluctance—more so, it’s as though Hua Cheng is choosing his words carefully. “They’re particularly difficult to deal with—they aren’t ordinary pests.”

And coming from Hua Cheng…

For someone as powerful as him to say that a creature like that isn’t easy to deal with—that’s no small thing.

“So…will you help me, your highness?”

And naturally, if it’s so dangerous—and even more difficult to deal with—

“…Of course,” Xie Lian agrees.

After everything Shi Qingxuan has done to help him since he returned to the heavens—the crown prince can’t leave him to deal with this on his own.

(And he doesn’t see it now—but Hua Cheng’s expression falls sharply.)

“But…wouldn’t your brother be the best person to ask?”

Shi Qingxuan’s jaw locks stubbornly, and she shakes her head.

“Not right now. He’s about to face his third Heavenly Calamity. It’ll be more dangerous than the two he’s faced before—if I allow this to distract him…”

It could end up costing her brother his life.

“…Alright,” Xie Lian takes a deep breath. “They’re tricky creatures to catch—but if we do get our hands on it…”

He’s confident enough that he can deal with it.

“I already have a plan to draw it out,” Shi Qingxuan pushes back from her chair, rising to her feet.

“I’ve reserved a room in the most luxurious restaurant in the capitol—I’m going to host plays and set off fireworks until it shows itself.”

The apple doesn’t fall so far from the tree, clearly—but Xie Lian can’t say it’s a bad plan for drawing out the venerable of empty words.

“Alright—in that case, if we’re going to be gone for a while, I’ll just need to make sure that someone can look after the shrine while I’m gone,” Xie Lian muses, turning back to Hua Cheng once more. “I’m sorry to be leaving so soon after you arrived, San Lang.”

The calamity leans back, crossing his arms. His posture is lazy, his legs stretched out, ankles crossed—it doesn’t convey the tension in his eyes.

“I can have my people make sure the shrine is looked after while you’re gone,” he murmurs. “But do you mind if I come along?”

He rises to his feet in tandem with the crown prince, ignoring the harsh look that Ming Yi sends his way in the process. “I’ve never seen a venerable of empty words personally—it sounds interesting.”

And of course, there’s Blackwater in their private array, seething.

‘What happened to staying out of it?’

“Oh,” Xie Lian smiles, slightly less disappointed than he was before. “If you’d like to come along—then that would be a great help.”

Hua Cheng smiles, falling in behind him—but his eye turns towards Ming Yi, gaze sharpening by the second.

‘That was before you brought this to my doorstep.’

Technically, Ming Yi did no such thing—and it’s Xie Lian’s doorstep, not Hua Cheng’s—

But given how angry the elder of the two ghost king’s sounds, he doesn’t dare argue.

“Ming-Xiong,” Shi Qingxuan reaches over, tugging him by the sleeve. “We should get going—draw the traveling array for us?”

Secret internal deliberations aside—the earth master lets out a long suffering sigh.

“Fine.”

He walks over towards the door—and he begins his work.

Compared to the travel array that Feng Xin drew up for them when they were traveling to the Crescent Moon Kingdom—this is a far more elegant specimen, one that Ming Yi draws with complete confidence, his fingers never pausing.

As he works, Shi Qingxuan turns to Xie Lian.

“Your highness—who was that foul mouthed little man from before?”

Xie Lian pauses in the middle of picking up his bamboo hat, tying it under his chin. “…Didn’t he already tell you?”

The Wind Master’s eyebrows shoot up. “…That was really the night touring green lantern?!”

He rubs the back of his head with a sheepish wince. “And my cousin.”

“…Huh.” Shi Qingxuan frowns, hands on her hips. “I thought he’d be taller.”

A snort slips out of Hua Cheng as he covers his mouth, shaking his head.

“Most people tend to say that.”

Outside, Xie Lian can hear his cousin squawking with indignation—meaning he overhead Shi Qingxuan’s little comment.

“…That’s not his actual body,” Xie Lian comments, brushing some dust from the hem of his sleeve. “His actual form is even shorter.”

That only makes the sounds of indignation from outside grow even louder—but before Qi Rong can finish screaming out his grievances, Ming Yi lifts his hands from the array.

“Let’s go.”

Hua Cheng steps forward first, walking over to push the door open just a crack—

And the moment he does, Xie Lian instantly becomes aware of the fact that something is wrong.

There’s no sound or chatter that he would expect from a restaurant in the imperial city—only silence, cold, and the faint smells of mold and dust.

Shi Qingxuan frowns. “What—?”

Just as she speaks—the candle on the table blows out, plunging the room into darkness.

Everyone else seems to panic for a moment, scrambling to find something to grab onto, feeling around in the dark.

Xie Lian, however, remains perfectly calm—his gaze focused ahead.

On the one thing he can see—a dark aura, burning with resentment so intense, it almost stings.

Lingering just behind the door.

And now, there’s a voice.

Dark, low, rattling with hatred as it echoes throughout the room.

“Step through this door—and it will lead you to hell!”

Shi Qingxuan lets out a choked, petrified sound, taking a step away—but Xie Lian steps forward, lifting his foot and kicking the door open, prepared to deal with the creature on the other side.

But as soon as he does—the dark aura disappears in a cloud of smoke.

Just…gone.

“…” He steps through the door, with Hua Cheng following quickly after him—and Xie Lian quickly gets the sense that something is very wrong.

It’s cold and damp—drafty. Without a sound of any other humans in earshot.

“…This isn’t a restaurant in the imperial city.”

“No,” Hua Cheng agrees, felling in step behind him. “It isn’t.”

“But…” Shi Qingxuan follows cautiously, gripping Ming Yi’s sleeve. “I don’t understand. It was only us four in the Shrine. How could it have gotten in without us noticing?”

It’s troubling Xie Lian as well.

After all—he should have been able to detect the evil aura immediately, but he only noticed it after the array had been disrupted.

“Could it have snuck in when the candle went out?”

Shi Qingxuan frowns, holding onto Ming Yi tighter as she shakes her head.

“The array had already been tampered with before that.”

And, of course—it couldn’t have been waiting outside and slipped in when Hua Cheng opened the door either, given that the array was etched on the inside of the door.

“…But Crimson Rain was the one who opened the door.”

Shi Qingxuan is quick to point that out, clearly floundering for some sort of explanation—and Hua Cheng raises an eyebrow.

“And Ming Yi was the one who created the array. What’s your point?” He questions dryly.

“Ming-Xiong wouldn’t do that!” The Wind Master protests vehemently.

“He came all this way to help me, and his arrays are the best! He even handles all of the traveling arrays for the heavens!”

Xie Lian supposes that shouldn’t come as a surprise. After all, he remembers something about the earth master being an engineer of sorts.

Or maybe that was the earth master before Ming Yi. Xie Lian faintly recalls the official who used to be the earth master being the same engineer who constructed the Walls of Gusu, long before even Xie Lian was born—far too old to be Ming Yi.

As a matter of fact—Xie Lian is fairly sure that he would have been alive during the time of the Royal House of Xianle’s founding ancestor, Xie Bolin. Given that the Royal Capitol and Gusu were built at similar times.

Could it be the case that every earth master is selected for an engineering background?

Hua Cheng chooses that moment to speak up, startling Xie Lian from his thoughts.

“And what would I have to gain from bringing us to a place like this?” He questions, crossing his arms.

Shi Qingxuan opens her mouth, instinctively about to say that it would be to cause some sort of mischief. That’s what her brother would say, after all—coming from a ghost king.

But then she stops, her eyes sliding over to Xie Lian, who is investigating their surroundings.

She actually doesn’t doubt that Hua Cheng might send her and Ming Yi somewhere frightening as a means of practical joke, but…

He wouldn’t do that to the crown prince of Xianle, even if that’s not what he’s explicitly saying.

“…You’re right,” she mutters, relenting. “Sorry.”

Hua Cheng shrugs, not seeming to accept or decline the apology one way or the other—and Xie Lian’s palm finally finds the wall of the structure they’re standing inside of, finding the familiar texture of smooth marble underneath his palm.

“…Is this a temple?” He mutters.

It must have fallen into disrepair, if that were the case…and even if the venerable of empty words has disappeared…

There’s a heavy aura of hate here. So palpable, it leaves a bitter taste on the prince’s tongue.

Shi Qingxuan finally comes to her senses enough to look, and…

All of the color drains from her face, leaving her expression ashen as she whips her head around, taking in the sight around her.

“It’s…” She wobbles, grabbing onto a nearby pillar for support, feeling slightly nauseous.

And this time, not from the prince’s cooking.

“…It’s a temple of Wind and Water, your highness.”

Xie Lian’s jaw goes slack.

How could that be?

After all—Shi Qingxuan is a popular goddess in her own right. But her brother? He’s the god of mortal wealth. No one hates money. So…why desecrate one of their temples?

The Wind Master almost trips over something on the floor, barely managing to catch herself—and when she looks down…

Xie Lian hears a tiny, petrified shriek—and luckily, he has good instincts, because he’s able to catch Shi Qingxuan when she leaps into his arms.

“YOUR HIGHNESS!” She shrieks, clinging around his neck.

Xie Lian whips his head around blindly, looking for the aura of the venerable of empty words—but he sees nothing, cradling the Wind Master in his arms.

“What is it?!”

(Ironically, it’s a reversal of the position they were in back when they were looking for clues in Paradise Manor, and Xie Lian was screaming and demanding Shi Qingxuan kill a giant spider.)

“It’s…It’s…!” She looks down, trembling, and her eyebrows knit together. “It’s…me!”

“…What?” Xie Lian blinks, moving to set her down—but Shi Qingxuan just holds on tighter, shaking her head.

From behind them, Hua Cheng frowns, eyeing their position with distaste.

“My divine statue!” She exclaims, staring down at it’s broken form on the ground with horror.

At first, the statues were so lifelike—she actually thought that they were corpses. Now, she realizes…

They’re actually the likenesses of her and her brother.

Her own statue has been split in half at the middle, a painted smile melted into a horrified scream.

And her brother…

His is even more horrific, with a gash in it’s throat cutting so deep, it’s nearly been decapitated.

“…Who would hate us enough to do this?” She whispers, finally allowing Xie Lian to set her down—but sticking close to him when he does.

In all honesty—Xie Lian has seen this sort of thing with his own temples before, but that was entirely different. He was being blamed for the downfall of a kingdom, cursed as a good of misfortune—

These are two gods who are, arguably, at the peak of their power.

Still, Xie Lian attempts to assuage her fears.

“As long as you have people who worship you—there will also be people who curse you. That’s simply the way of things.”

Shi Qingxuan frowns, her lips trembling—and Ming Yi gives a far less elegant form of comfort.

“Are you gonna be able to do this?” He questions flatly. “If you can’t, we ought to go back.”

Shi Qingxuan presses her lips together tightly, determined, clutching her wind master fan close to her chest.

“No,” she mutters, shaking her head. “I’m not running away!”

After a moment she eyes the exit to the temple, and she takes a deep breath. “It has to be around here somewhere still, right? I’m going to go and see what this thing is made of!”

She marches off towards the exit, her spine stiff, and while her sudden wave of courage isn’t likely to last—Ming Yi follows her.

Hua Cheng moves to follow—but Xie Lian stops him with a hand on his arm.

“San Lang?”

The Ghost King looks down at him, raising an eyebrow.

“Gege?”

“…I was just thinking,” Xie Lian lowers his voice, leaning up on the balls of his feet in order to whisper close to Hua Cheng’s ear—and the Ghost King is kind enough to lean down to assist in his efforts.

“Do you think we should exchange communication array passwords?”

The pause that follows is enough to leave the god feeling slightly insecure. “…Is that a strange thing to ask? If so, never mind—it’s really nothing so serious—”

“No,” Hua Cheng interrupts him, and rather than sounding uncomfortable…

Actually, he sounds quite pleased.

“It’s not strange—I’m happy you asked me.”

Xie Lian pauses, surprised—and beside him, where he’s leaned down to allow them to whisper more easily—Hua Cheng is smiling.

“…You are?”

“I was wondering when you would, but you never brought it up.”

Xie Lian has never felt put at ease so quickly or so easily.

“I began thinking you just didn’t like sharing your password with other people. And now that you’re finally asking me, you say it’s not a big deal?”

It almost sounds like he’s sulking, and Xie Lian looks away.

“San Lang, don’t tease me about it…”

“I’m not,” the ghost king insists, but there’s still a smile tugging at his lips, even as he needles the prince. “I’m being perfectly serious.”

(Somehow, Xie Lian doesn’t believe him when he says that.)

“What’s your password then, gege?”

“Oh,” Xie Lian looks back at him, his eyes widening earnestly. “Just say the ethics sutra a thousand times.”

Hua Cheng’s eyebrows arch for a moment—and then, after a slight pause—

‘It’s just the phrase that you have to say three times, isn’t it?’

Xie Lian smiles, pleased.

‘No one’s ever guessed it that quickly before!’

There’s a difference in tone, when it comes to speaking inside someone’s private communication array. It’s something that Xie Lian himself does rather rarely—a necessity, when his spiritual power is so limited.

He forgot how intimate it could feel—having someone speaking directly into his mind.

Of course, he’s spoken to Ling Wen—and in the general communication array—but there’s something different about this.

(Or maybe, it’s just because it’s Hua Cheng.)

The Ghost King chuckles.

“It’s a good joke, your highness.”

Mu Qing certainly didn’t think so—as a matter of fact, he was incredibly annoyed when he figured out what the password actually was, even if it only took him a few minutes.

It took poor Feng Xin over two years, and he still forgets at times.

But when he did realize—instead of being angry, he absolutely roared with laughter, rolling around on the ground, clutching his stomach until Xie Lian thought he was going to get sick.

Naturally, it made Mu Qing even more pissed off—but it couldn’t be helped.

Feng Xin will laugh at any and every joke, no matter how good or bad it is.

But hearing Hua Cheng say he finds it amusing—that makes Xie Lian smile a bit, in spite of the situation.

“And what about your password, San Lang?”

“You want to know?”

The prince nods rather eagerly.

This time, Hua Cheng leans very close, whispering the words directly into Xie Lian’s ear.

It’s not a very long password. Rather succinct, actually.

And when the prince hears, his face flushes red—all the way from his cheeks to the tips of his ears.

“…That’s—San Lang, that’s not really it, right?” He chokes, silently hoping that the ghost is joking, but—

“No,” Hua Cheng murmurs, his lips still close to Xie Lian’s ear. “Why don’t you try it out and see for yourself?”

Oh—

Xie Lian can’t.

He absolutely cannot.

“That…If I said that, it would sound like I wanted you…to…” Xie Lian trails off weakly, knowing that it’s just a password, but still. It…

“…I couldn’t say that.”

It’s rare that Hua Cheng lets something slip out unintentionally—but he mutters something under his breath:

“Dianxia almost said it yesterday.”

Xie Lian pauses, his lips parted. What is he—?

Then, that memory hits him like a stack of bricks.

Oh.

/Oh./

Being against that tree, with Hua Cheng whispering in his ear.

‘What did you imagine, your highness?’

The martial god chokes.

“San L—?!”

“Your highness?”

Xie Lian nearly jumps out of his skin, whipping around in Shi Qingxuan’s direction.

“Nothing!” He blurts out, pulling up the hood of his robes to hide his flushed expression.

“…What do you mean, nothing?” The Wind Master tilts her head.

“All I did was call your name.”

“…” Xie Lian swallows thickly, clearing his throat. “Right, right—what is it?”

“I was just wondering if you two were ever going to come along—there’s a village outside, we found a place to regroup.”

“Right,” the prince agrees, hurrying forward—glad to have an excuse to get away from THAT conversation. “Coming!”

Hua Cheng watches Xie Lian hurry out the door for a moment, his lips curving up into a fond smile—and he’s quick to follow after him.

As it turns out, the place Shi Qingxuan and Ming Yi found to ‘regroup’ has turned out to be a restaurant, one with large, open windows that face out onto the street—and Ming Yi is all to eager to eradicate any memory of Xie Lian’s soup from his palette, ordering the entire menu.

“I’ve been thinking,” Xie Lian pipes up, sipping from a cup of tea. “This venerable of empty words—it must be pretty old, to be so strong. Meaning it’s had targets before you—and if it’s still around, it’s devoured mortals since. Did your brother ever investigate the matter?”

“Oh—of course he did,” Shi Qingxuan nods, reaching into her sleeve to pull out a scroll. “I had the records from it pulled before I came to ask for your help. The only way they could really track it was by finding cases of other victims over the centuries.”

(Tw// mentions of suicide)

All of the deaths listed in the document as Shi Qingxuan reads the information out are suicides at first glance—but it’s the circumstances that set them apart.

Famous generals who watched their countries burn. Titans of industry left penniless.

Scholars who ended their lives in disgrace and with little recognition for their work.

All individuals who could have achieved greatness—who even seemed set on that path, in some cases—only to crash back down to earth in sudden failure.

“…” Hua Cheng listens to the same information, crossing his arms over his chest with a frown. “This scroll isn’t much good, half of it is wrong.”

Shi Qingxuan stops in the middle of reading, whipping her head around to stare at him. “Huh? What do you mean?!”

The ghost king leans over, surveying the names on the list for a moment, nodding when he’s confirmed what he already suspected.

“Several of these weren’t targets of the venerable of empty words.”

“Huh?!” The Wind Master sputters. “How would you know?!”

Hua Cheng’s reply is simple, if not slightly chilling.

“Because I was the one who killed them.”

Shi Qingxuan’s jaw drops open while Xie Lian turns to the ghost king, slightly confused.

“But San Lang…it says they all took their own lives.”

Hua Cheng shrugs.

“I would send a messenger to inform them that I was coming, and they would usually just off themselves before I arrived.” He tilts his head to the side, glancing around the table while raising an eyebrow. “Doesn’t that could as my kill?”

Neither Shi Qingxuan or Ming Yi make any arguments to the contrary, and he continues—

“Did your brother even take this investigation seriously? How could the only document on the matter be so riddled with errors?”

“Of course he did!” The Wind Master cries vehemently.

“He takes everything to do with my safety incredibly seriously! If there was a mistake, then it wasn’t his fault!”

Even now, she’s her brother’s most ardent believer.

In some distant way, Hua Cheng supposes that he can sympathize.

“Who prepared this document, then?”

“…”

The degree to which Shi Qingxuan deflates says enough for everyone to know the answer before she says it.

“…The Palace of Ling Wen,” she mutters.

And for an investigation from her palace to have so many errors, well…

It’s unusual.

Still—Xie Lian doesn’t find room for suspicion in that. If there’s anything he’s learned after spending time with Hua Cheng—it’s that the Heavens don’t seem to know much at all when it comes to the ghost realm.

Just then, a waiter arrives—and when he does, Xie Lian turns his head to ask him—

“Excuse me sir, do you mind telling us the name of this place?”

The waiter raises an eyebrow, filling all of their glasses.

“You aren’t familiar with our town of Fu Gu, sir?”

When Xie Lian shakes his head, the waiter straightens from where he’s been setting several plates in front of Ming Yi, surprised.

“I assumed that you folks were in town for the fire social—it’s what we’re famous for.”

“A fire social?” Shi Qingxuan questions.

Xie Lian smiles faintly. “You’ve never seen one before?”

Fire socials are rare occasions—but always enjoyable.

“They’re festivals put on during folk holidays. There are parades, firework shows, and busking—local plays too. They’re definitely worth watching.”

He remembers going to a festival just like that when he was a teenager, sneaking out of the palace in peasant’s clothes to surprise Mu Qing’s little sister for her birthday.

They’re beautiful affairs—and in the years since, he’s regretted the fact that he can’t see them now.

“…But there’s not even a holiday,” Shi Qingxuan mutters, fidgeting in her seat, a glass of wine in hand. “Tomorrow is the end of autumn—but that’s not exactly something worth celebrating.”

No one is happy when winter comes, after all.

“Fire socials are held for many reasons.”

Xie Lian explains, feeling around for his own cup of tea from where he set it down, only to have someone place it in his hand for him.

“…Thank you, San Lang.” He murmurs. “Fire socials can be held to celebrate events, or to remember people—it depends on the place.”

“Fu Gu’s is pretty famous,” the waiter smiles, stepping away from their table. “I hope you folks enjoy the show.”

Xie Lian smiles politely, taking a sip of his tea. After all, he doubts he’ll be able to enjoy the show much at all—but there’s something to be had in listening.

Hua Cheng watches him wordlessly, his arm thrown over the back of his god’s seat—a movement so subtle, Xie Lian hardly noticed it—and his expression has become unreadable.

And watching them both is Ming Yi, his mouth set into a grim line.

After all—the situation is complicated.

Shi Qingxuan doesn’t seem focused on anyone else once the conversation dies out, her eyes flickering down to settle on the table, her fingers constantly twitching with anxiety.

Partly, for reasons that are quite obvious.

The other reason, however, isn’t quite so clear.

Eventually, her eyes drift out the window—and when they do, she sits up straight in her seat from the shock.

“…What is that?!”

She almost moves to get up—but she’s stopped by Ming Yi’s hand on her arm, holding her down.

“Ming-Xiong, let me go!”

Lately, when Xie Lian’s been in a situation like this—the one who would explain to him what was going on was Shi Qingxuan herself. Now, he leans closer to Hua Cheng, murmuring—

“San Lang—what’s happening?”

Hua Cheng turns his head to look out onto the street, fingers curling ever so slightly around the edge of Xie Lian’s chair, a silent display of protectiveness that goes unnoticed.

“…It would seem that there’s a troupe passing through with very realistic prosthetics.”

“Prosthetics?!” Shi Qingxuan shakes her head, still struggling against Ming Yi as she attempts to leave the table. “Those people are wounded!”

“No,” Hua Cheng contradicts her calmly. “It’s all fake.”

And just like that, Xie Lian inhales sharply with understanding.

“Oh!” He leans forward, intrigued. “This is quite an occasion!”

Shi Qingxuan looks over at him, utterly baffled—still vexed about the perceived danger. “What are you talking about?!”

“This is a bloody fire social!” Xie Lian explains. “It’s truly a rare opportunity to see one!”

They’re a practice that has become more and more rare over time, after all—Xie Lian has never had the chance to witness one himself.
And even now, he’s missing out on the most notable part.

“The performers in bloody fire socials are famous for their makeup artistry.”

It’s a secret technique that isn’t passed down—which is why the practice is becoming so rare.

“…That’s all makeup?!” Shi Qingxuan mutters, her eyes wide. “…But it looks so real!”

The group of performers trailing down the street are…

Truly grotesque.

Some of them have axes splitting their skulls open, brain matter and gore trailing down over their faces. Others have their innards spilling out through their ribs. Some are even missing limbs—groaning and screaming as they walk through the center of town.

It’s truly the most horrifying sight that Shi Qingxuan has ever seen, leaving her covering her mouth, fighting back nausea all over again.

From across the table, Xie Lian sighs—wistful, wishing he could see such a rare sight.

“There are some truly talented people on the world.”

For a moment, she can only stare at the prince like he’s completely lost his mind—but when she recovers, she manages to mutter—

“…I thought you said fire socials were supposed to be celebrations.”

Even now, she can see women at the front of the crowd fainting.

Children are screaming and running away the minute they see the actors coming close.

“Well—even if this one is particularly gory, it’s probably still trying to tell some sort of story,” Xie Lian explains with a shrug. “You should watch.”

“But I already am watching!”

“But watch for the story,” the prince implores her. “The venerable of empty words switched the array around to bring us here intentionally—on the night of this fire social. It might have intended for you to see it.”

Shi Qingxuan frowns, her brow creasing—but she watches.

All of the actors seem to be swirling and crawling around one character.

A tall, gaunt looking man, dressed in black. An ax dragging on the ground behind him, cutting a deep track in the dirt as he moves.

And there’s something…odd about his movement. The way he walks.

He staggers, swaying from side to side, stumbling in an odd zig-zag pattern through the street. Almost as though he’s drunk, but…

There’s a deadness to his eyes—no fog that one would associate with being intoxicated, simply…

A lack of humanity.

In short—

A madman.

The procession slowly makes it’s way to the end of the town’s Main Street—and when it reaches it’s destination, the man in black, the leader of the troop, stumbles into the river, leaving only the ax behind him.

He disappears into the water—all of the other actors collapse.

Like puppets with their strings cut, a pile of bodies, strewn around on the ground.

Hua Cheng quietly relays the details of the scene to Xie Lian, whispering close to his ear, and the prince frowns.

It clearly sounds like the man in black is the protagonist—and the mutilated crowd surrounding him are his enemies, villains who wronged him.

But what does this have to do with the venerable of empty words—and what is Shi Qingxuan supposed to learn from it?

Just then, the waiter returns to their table, with…

Even more food for Ming Yi, who at this point is surrounded by the shredded remains of an entire roasted chicken.

“…Ming-Xiong, how can you eat after watching that?!” Shi Qingxuan grumbles, her face in her hands.

The earth master glances up, his cheeks puffing out similar to a chipmunks, crammed full with food.

“What? It’s all fake.”

“That doesn’t make it less GROSS!”

Xie Lian overlooks their bickering, waving to get the waiter’s attention.

“Excuse me, sir—do you know the story behind the performance that just took place?”

“Ah,” the water smiles pleasantly, pouring the prince another cup of tea. “People from out of town don’t usually know the story—but it’s about the most famous man who ever lived in Fu Gu.”

Once he’s finished with Xie Lian’s drink, he sets the tea pot aside, lifting up a bottle of whiskey, filling up Hua Cheng’s glass once more.

“He was a renowned scholar by the name of He—and while his family was rather poor, he was an extraordinary young man.”

The tale the waiter tells is a surprisingly harrowing one.

“He was known to be brilliant in any subject or craft he happened to take part in. He was the son of a Shipyard worker, but by the time he was a teenager—he was the one engineering the ships himself.”

No small accomplishment—and it sounds like a person with a bright future ahead, but—

“The only thing that ever got in his way…” The waiter sighs, shaking his head, “was a string of bad luck.”

Surely, he never knew the man in his mortal life—but he sounds deeply sympathetic.

And Xie Lian doubts it could truly be that bad—until the waiter begins listing events off like the major plot points of a book—and if this was a book, well—

It would be a horror.

“He studied to take the state exams—and despite being more than capable, his scores always came back as zero. Because the proctors—for whatever reason—switched his scrolls out for blank ones.”

Hua Cheng normally asks questions during stories like this—but now, he remains silent.

“His fiancé was a childhood friend—well known for being a kind, beautiful woman, compassionate to everyone around her. But both she and Scholar He’s little sister were abducted by a wealthy family, intending to force them into being concubines.”

The way he says it initially makes Xie Lian hope that they were unsuccessful—but that’s quickly doused by the truth:

“The sister took her own life, rather than living with the shame—and his fiancé was beaten to death when she refused to obey their wishes.”

Ming Yi’s chopsticks don’t pause, making their way to his lips in a calm, purposeful motion. There’s almost a forced, unnatural rhythm to the action.

“When Scholar He went to confront them to get his loved ones back—his fiancé died in his arms.”

Xie Lian sets his cup of tea down, a faint memory pulling at him—but so far gone, he doesn’t even know what he’s trying to recall.

“She pleaded with him not to take vengeance with her final breaths—and in that moment, he did not. But her killers imprisoned him anyway.”

Shi Qingxuan bites her lip as she listens to the story, shocked by the cruelty of it.

“His parents were old—and without another child to look after them in their later years, they pleaded for mercy—but Scholar He received none.” The waiter shakes his head, his tone grim.

“They imprisoned him for years—starving him to the point of near death. His poor mother was so sick, she passed away before he was released. And once he was, well—” The waiter looks toward the street, to where the lead actor is pulling himself from the river.

“Scholar He had a way of never staying down for long. So, when he was free again—he went into business, and he thrived. So much so that it made the other merchants in the town jealous—and they sabotaged him as a result, leaving him drowning in debts.”

“Eventually, his father passed away—and when he did, the merchants in town refused to even help Scholar He bury him, saying that it only took one man to bury a dog.”

The tale itself feels truly hopeless—not one at all worth celebrating—

Until he reaches the ending.

“Scholar He picked up an ax—and one by one, he slaughtered every man in the village who had wronged him. These men had long terrorized the people of Fu Gu—so no one stood in his way, they only watched.”

Which explains the gory scene of the parade.

“He attacked them again and again—until every single one of them was slain. And the people cheered him—but in one final stroke of bad luck, the cliff side he stood upon crumbled beneath him, and he plunged into the sea.”

Xie Lian jaw drops, taking that in.

Who could have such horrible luck, other than him?! He’s never heard of such a thing!

“And…you hold this festival to honor him?”

In spite of only just recounting a truly gruesome tale, the waiter beams. “Of course! Our town has worshiped Scholar He as a god ever since!”

Shi Qingxuan pauses, tilting her head with surprise.

“…a god? The story makes no mention of him ascending.”

“Aye, you’re right,” the waiter nods. “But the man was clearly destined for greater things—almost like a curse stole it all away from him.”

The restaurant has gone somewhat quiet, the other residents of Fu Gu growing quiet to listen to the tale.

Hua Cheng glances around, surveying the room.

Qinghe—the city of his own birth—is only forty kilometers from here.

But the people of Fu Gu couldn’t be any more different.

They’re hardened—mostly dressed in black. Hua Cheng himself switched into the skin of a young man in black robes when they stepped out of the temple in order to blend in.

Shipbuilders and fishermen. People who have spent their entire lives being worn and weathered by the sea.

One of them—an older man with a beard shot through with gray, his skin prematurely roughened from the wind and salty air, comments—

“You respect a man’s destiny, young lady—whether he got the chance to live it out or not.”

The waiter nods in agreement.

“Ever since, our people have worshipped him here in Fu Gu—and we throw him a fire social every year on the anniversary of his death in remembrance.”

Hua Cheng hasn’t ordered any food—but he flips a chopstick between his fingers, his expression pensive.

“What kind of god is he?”

After all—every god, even those who aren’t real—are patrons of one thing or another.

“He’s known as a god of retribution, punishing those who insult or harm others with their arrogance. We actually have another tradition,” he looks out the window, pointing to the cliffs.

The very same cliffs from which Scholar He fell, centuries before.

“We throw coins into the sea from there—and it’s said if you do, you may lay a curse upon someone who has wronged you, and Scholar He will answer.”

It doesn’t sound like a very ‘godly’ thing to do.

But then again, they’ve made the point many times—

This scholar ‘he’ never ascended you begin with. Meaning, if he still lingers on…

It would be as a ghost.

A powerful one.

Just as Xie Lian begins to ponder the matter—

That voice comes back.

Louder than before—screaming.

“BEFORE THIS IS OVER—YOU’LL LOSE YOUR BROTHER AND YOUR CLOSEST FRIEND, AND IT WILL BE ALL YOUR FAULT!”

Shi Qingxuan was rattled before, when she heard the voice—screaming and hiding. But this time, when it directly threatens her loved ones—It draws out a very different reaction.

Her expression twists, her cheeks becoming flushed with anger as she launches herself out of her seat—and before Ming Yi can stop her, she leaps through the open window, charging towards the crowd.

“Show yourself you COWARD!” She shouts, shoving through the actors.

Xie Lian rises from his own seat, moving to go after her. “Lady Wind Master, wait!”

“For what?! Didn’t you hear it?! It—It’s HERE!” She whips her head around, her hair swirling around her as she examines the mortals around her, trying to find something sinister, but…

There’s nothing recognizably threatening—and that infuriates her even more.

“WHAT ARE YOU HIDING FOR?! SCARED?! COME OUT!”

Xie Lian struggles through the crowd at first. He can seem spiritual energy after all—but normal mortals have very little, and it leaves him stumbling.

But just when he trips over an actor’s foot, a hand wraps around his bicep, pulling him back onto his feet before he can hit the ground.

Xie Lian doesn’t even have to look beside him to know that he’ll find a sea of crimson there—and he nods gratefully.

“Thank you, San Lang.”

It feels like that’s been every other word out of his mouth lately—and now, the crowd parts for him easily, shifting out of his way like water as he hurries to Shi Qingxuan’s side, grabbing her by the arm.

“It won’t come out when you’re expecting it!”

After all—it gains power from the fear it creates by surprising her. And for a demon this ancient and powerful, hiding itself is an easy task.

Even from Xie Lian, it would seem—because he can’t see any sign of that dark aura anywhere.

Shi Qingxuan’s face sinks into her hands, earrings clinking as she whips her head from side to side, utterly miserable.

“Ming-Xiong, did you hear it?! It threatened you too,” she groans.

The earth master arches an eyebrow, resting one hand on his hip.

“When?”

“It said it was going to kill my best friend!” She cries, grabbing him by the sleeve.

Ming Yi stares down at her, unimpressed.

“Who is that?”

Shi Qingxuan’s expression falls, her eye twitching with irritation.

“MING-XIONG! CAN’T YOU BE NICE TO ME AT A TIME LIKE THIS?!”

Xie Lian sighs, rubbing a hand against his forehead, knowing at this rate—they aren’t getting anywhere.

“Lady Wind Master, here,” he rummages through his pockets for a moment, holding something out to her. “You should use these for now.”

Shi Qingxuan looks down at her palm.

“…Earplugs?”

“Yes,” Xie Lian nods. “We can continue speaking in our group’s communication array—but the reverend of empty words has always used it’s voice to taunt you. Cutting yourself off from it’s words ought to help.”

Unable to argue with that logic—Shi Qingxuan agrees.

Once she has them in her ears—Xie Lian speaks into the private array between the four of them:

‘See? It makes no difference, there’s nothing to be afraid of.‘

Shi Qingxuan smiles, letting out a shaky breath.

‘Thank you, your highness.’

Xie Lian reaches over, patting her arm.

'And you're already in your female form because it's more powerful, right? The venerable of empty words would be a fool to attack you right now.'

After all, while Shi Qingxuan does love her female form--more often than not, she chooses to appear as a man.

For her to be in this form the entire time is a testament to how frightened she must be.

"..." Shi Qingxuan nods, only seeming mildly comforted, replying into the communication array,

'Thank you, your highness.'

As they walk back towards the Temple of Wind and Water, planning to regroup, a very different conversation is unfolding.

One that Xie Lian and Shi Qingxuan have no way of knowing about--because they don't even know the private communication array in which it's occurring exists.

'Hua Cheng.'

It's a repeated call that he's been echoing since Shi Qingxuan leapt from the window of the restaurant--one that the other ghost king has been stubbornly ignoring.

'Hua Cheng.'

He stares straight ahead, arms crossed, falling into step beside Xie Lian--

'Wu Ming.'

It's an admittedly low blow, referring to him by that name--but it has the intended result, Hua Cheng's posture stiffening as his eyes flicker in Ming Yi's direction.

'He Sheng.'

Another name that the other loathes to hear, and for the very same reason.

Because they can no longer hear their names from those that they love. One by curse, the other by fate.

'That wasn't me.'

Hua Cheng rolls his eyes, turning his gaze back ahead.

'I'm sure.'

'Hua Cheng--'

'Look, I'm playing along with your stupid little freak show.'

Hua Cheng grumbles into the communication array, gritting his teeth as he walks beside his god in silence.

'It's your own fault that I got dragged into this.'

'This isn't about--how is that my fault?' Ming Yi frowns.

'Who did you think Shi Qingxuan was going to ask for help?'

After all--his brother wouldn't be an option. And after that, the best option would be to choose a martial god. But they aren't known for being particularly discreet.

In that case, Xie Lian, a trusted friend, was the obvious choice.

'I didn't think--'

'No, you didn't.'

Normally, unless under serious strain--or speaking about his revenge--He Xuan isn't easily ruffled, and is the type to speak calmly.

'Would you shut up and listen?!'

Hua Cheng has to fight the urge to whip his head around and bare his teeth at the use of that tone.

'What?!'

'The voice in the shrine was me.' He Xuan admits. 'The traveling array--that was me too.'

'I fucking gathered.'

'But the voice in the crowd just now--that wasn't me.'

Now, Hua Cheng falls silent, his gaze narrowing.

'I'm trying to lead her to the truth,' Blackwater mutters.

'I'm not trying to torture her.'

Hua Cheng would argue that pretending to be the monster that hunted her for the duration for her childhood is, in fact, some form of torture--but he doesn't point that out.

'You couldn't have just had a sleepover and braided each other's hair?'

The other calamity doesn't immediately reply, but given how irritated Hua Cheng has been by the entire experience, he's happy to let the sarcasm fly.

'You could have even worn that female skin of yours, and then you could have spilled your secrets to one another.'

'Shut up.'

'I've been wondering--the rack, is that because the wind master likes them, or are you just projecting?'

'I said SHUT UP! You think I would have gone to all this trouble if I could have just told her the truth as Ming Yi? How do you think that would have gone?!'

Hua Cheng can see his point, however reluctant he is to give blackwater /any/ credit right now.

It would require admitting that he had been lying to her for decades, all while becoming her lover at the same time.

Once that trust was broken, why would she believe him?

'You don't think she's going to be traumatized anyway when you murder her brother?' Hua Cheng points out, the dryness in his tone hiding the uncertainty underneath.

After all--he has little care or sympathy for the Water Master...and yet.

Memory is a pesky thing.

The first time Hua Cheng met Shi Wudu, he wasn't a god. He wasn't even a man.

He was a teenage boy. Proud, clearly wound up tighter than a broken clock, desperate to save his little brother.

Hua Cheng has been desperate to protect someone before.

His empathy for the water master is limited--certainly not so great that Hua Cheng would intervene to save his life, but still.

He takes no joy in watching his demise unfold, either.

(Though, perhaps--if Hua Cheng had known everything, he would have stopped it.

But he didn't.)

'You don't think it'll be easier when she sees that he's a fucking monster?'

Hua Cheng can't make the argument that Shi Wudu hasn't done monstrous things--so he doesn't try to.

'Families are more complicated than that, He Xuan.'

'And how would you know?!' Blackwater snaps.

There’s a beat of silence before Hua Cheng replies, his voice frigid—

‘I certainly hope you’re speaking about having siblings, because while I may have been an only child, I had a mother.’

A mother who loved him fiercely, and fought to protect him until her very last breath.

And maybe Hua Cheng lost her far too young. Maybe most of his memories of her have faded.

But he remembers having a mother. He remembers being loved by one.

It was a small, broken family—but it was still his family, and he remembers being a part of one.

‘…I’m just trying to give her a chance,’ He Xuan finally replies, his tone significantly less combative. ‘I know she’ll hate me after it’s over with. But she’ll have a chance at understanding.’

Hua Cheng doesn’t reply, waiting for the rest in frigid silence.

‘…I wasn’t the one who screamed out in the crowd,’ He Xuan repeats. ‘Which means someone or something else is following us.’

Which is baffling.

The obvious explanation, of course, would be for the culprit to be the real venerable of empty words from all those years ago, but…

He Xuan devoured it shortly after becoming a calamity, absorbing it’s power—which is why he’s able to impersonate it so effectively to begin with.

Which begs the question: what could be interfering here, and why? Who else would even know about this situation?

‘…Then I suggest you figure it out,’ Hua Cheng replies flatly, placing a hand on Xie Lian’s elbow as he helps him up the temple steps. ‘I’m here to look after dianxia. I already told you—I won’t get involved.’

Which means he won’t help He Xuan, either.

‘San Lang,’ Xie Lian speaks up in their private communication array, and Hua Cheng cuts off Blackwater without another thought.

‘Yes, gege?’

‘I need your help with something.’

He tilts his head, curious. ‘And what would that be?’

‘I have a plan to test and see if someone is the venerable of empty words.’

Ah.

Oh dear.

Hua Cheng bites back the urge to grimace.

Of course, his god is clever. Which is why him being involved in this situation is such a complication.

‘Whatever his highness needs, I’ll do.’

They exchange words quietly in Xie Lian’s private array, and all the while, Shi Qingxuan paces inside the temple of Wind and Water, fiddling with the earplugs.

‘…Can’t we do something to pass the time?’ She grumbles in the array with the four of them, irritated.

‘Something fun!’

Ming Yi doesn’t look the least bit impressed.

‘You’re really trying to mess around right now?’

The Wind Master huffs, pacing even faster. ‘Well, why shouldn’t I?! This monster wants me to be miserable?! Well I WON’T! I’ll have the time of my LIFE!”

She turns towards the exit, puffing her chest out. ‘I hope that makes it so angry, it DROPS DEAD!’

Xie Lian speaks up over their bickering, trying to make use of her suggestion:

‘…Why don’t we play dice?’

Shi Qingxuan stops, looking over at him curiously.

‘Dice? You’d think after last time, you’d have sworn off of it.’ Before Xie Lian can respond, she throws up her hands, sitting down. ‘I’m up for it! What should it be, highs and lows?’

‘That’s what I was thinking,’ Xie Lian agrees. ‘And why don’t we play on teams?’

When he says this, Hua Cheng automatically moves to sit beside him—and Shi Qingxuan frowns.

‘Isn’t it unfair if you and Crimson Rain match up? After all—his luck is insanely good, right?’

‘That’s true,’ Xie Lian agrees, ‘But mine is phenomenally bad, remember? It evens out.’

That explanation seems to satisfy Shi Qingxuan—and Ming Yi makes no protest of his own, but he continuously glances in Hua Cheng’s direction from the corner of his eye.

The dice are passed out—and the first roll goes about as one would expect.

Hua Cheng rolls a six, Xie Lian rolls a one, and Shi Qingxuan and Ming Yi roll a five and four respectively.

‘HA!’ Shi Qingxuan laughs, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly, glad to have something to focus on other than her fear. ‘HAHAHAHA! Your luck really is SO BAD!’

Xie Lian isn’t offended—he’s relieved that she’s no longer in distress, but he pretends to grumble. ‘Do you have to be so happy about it, Lady Wind Master?’

‘…Ahem, right, sorry,’ She moves on, ‘What do we get for winning? Can we make the other team do something?’

‘I don’t see why not,’ Xie Lian smiles, ‘what would you like us to do?’

‘Hmmm…’ Shi Qingxuan leans back on the heels of her palms, looking back and forth between the two of them. ‘You should…’

Then, her smile turns mischievous.

‘Take off each other’s clothes!’

Xie Lian chokes, his face immediately going red as he leans back from the group, flailing his hands in front of him nervously.

‘W-What?!’

‘You said I could have you guys do something!’ Shi Qingxuan shrugs, waggling her eyebrows in Ming Yi’s direction. ‘Right?’

The earth master doesn’t respond one way or the other, but he doesn’t offer a new suggestion either.

Xie Lian frowns, clearly dismayed—and Hua Cheng speaks into his private array once again.

‘Apologies gege—but if you want your plan to work, we’ll have to go along with it.’

Xie Lian frowns deeply—but Hua Cheng is right, and he doesn’t see another way.

‘…How much should we take off?’ He questions reluctantly, to which Shi Qingxuan grins even wider.

‘Just one layer for now! We can save the rest for later, hahahaha!’

The prince grimaces, turning to Hua Cheng—and he feels a little silly, but since he can’t really see what the ghost king is doing, he simply holds his arms up, half in an act of surrender, half in order to make it easier for Hua Cheng to remove his outer robe for him.

Which he does—rather quickly and efficiently, his fingers never lingering inappropriately, or adding enough pressure that Xie Lian really feels his touch at all. The only sign of it’s presence is the way Xie Lian’s outer robe slips own his shoulders, so he can set it aside.

It’s chilly outside—but even in only his inner robes, Xie Lian doesn’t complain.

His own hands are a little uncertain as he reaches for Hua Cheng, fumbling slightly as he looks for the latches in his robes—but when he senses Xie Lian’s difficulties, the ghost king assists him.

His fingers wrap around Xie Lian’s wrists, gently guiding them to the correct place along his robes, allowing his god to gently undo the clasps before slipping his arms out of the sleeves, allowing his outer robes to fall to the floor in a heap.

And of course—Xie Lian remains calm, not showing any strong reaction to the situation one way or the other, but internally…

The prince swallows hard, pulling his hands back when the work is finished, willing the heat out of his face.

‘Is that good enough?’

‘It’s perfect!’

They roll again—and this time, Xie Lian and Hua Cheng roll the same results: a one and a six. And as for Shi Qingxuan and Ming Yi—

It’s two fours.

Xie Lian frowns when Shi Qingxuan erupts into cheers, speaking in the private array.

‘San Lang—?’

‘Sorry gege—’ The Ghost King replies, his tone markedly apologetic. ‘That one was my bad. But didn’t you say we should let them lose a couple of rounds first?’

Yes, but that was BEFORE Shi Qingxuan started making them strip!

‘HA—!’ She starts, but Xie Lian interrupts.

‘No more stripping this time! …Why don’t you ask us questions? Any question will do, and we have to answer honestly!’

‘Oh?’ Shi Qingxuan tilts her head curiously. ‘That’s fine—Crimson Rain, you go first—what’s the worst kind of suffering in the world?’

The smile on Hua Cheng’s face quickly fades, and his expression darkens.

‘…I mean, don’t get me wrong, I don’t mean anything bad by it!’ Shi Qingxuan clarifies, holding her hands up in a neutral gesture. ‘I’m just wondering what a ghost king would call ‘painful,’ you know?’

‘What do you think that would be?’ Hua Cheng replies quietly—not necessarily sounding upset, only pensive.

Shi Qingxuan falls silent, thinking it over, and eventually she guesses—

‘The Kiln in Mount Tonglu?’

That actually draws a small smile.

It’s the obvious choice.

‘The Kiln has never frightened me. I think of it as the place where I was born.’

And it is the one place on earth where he can speak his name.

‘…Then what is it?’

Hua Cheng’s smile fades once more, his eyes growing dark as he watches the fire Ming Yi built before.

‘…Seeing the person you love be insulted and cast down before your eyes, and being unable to do anything.’ He answers conclusively, the flames reflecting in his eyes. ‘That’s the worst suffering in the world.’

Hearing this, Xie Lian goes still, his stomach slowly sinking.

…The person he loves?

‘Ah,’ Shi Qingxuan finally replies—not seeming to know what to say about that. Instead, she turns to Ming Yi. ‘That’s all I had—what about you?’

That could mean so many different things. There are so many different ways to love someone, but—

But just one person? /The/ person he loves? Who—?

‘Your highness,’ Ming Yi’s eyes drift over to him, and Xie Lian straightens up, pulled free from his thoughts.

‘Yes?’

‘What is the greatest regret of your life?’

Xie Lian falls silent, surprised.

After all—given the silliness of Shi Qingxuan’s first request, he wasn’t expecting either of the questions the two of them asked to be so serious in nature.

And for Xie Lian—there are so many options for what his greatest regret might be.

After all, he’s made so many mistakes.

Some of them stand out more brightly than others.

The fall of Xianle. The way he sent Feng Xin away. His last conversation with his father. His treatment of Wu Ming. The guided banquet. His failure to protect Banyue.

The most recent addition to his list of regrets—but by no means a small one—is his admission after the mid-autumn festival.

That the events in the temple—they transpired after the last argument he had with Feng Xin and Mu Qing.

He still hasn’t gotten that sound out of his head.

The pained, broken sound that wrenched from Mu Qing’s lips when he realized what had happened.

The sound of him beginning to blame himself.

Out of all of those things, the most obvious candidate for his greatest ‘regret’ would be his second ascension.

What he almost did to the people of Yong’an. The creature he nearly became.

The way that Wu Ming paid the price for it.

Of all of the things he has done in his life, that’s the choice that he thinks of the most. The thing he’s the most ashamed of.

Still.

‘…I used to be a deep sleeper.’

The answer is shockingly succinct, given the complexity of the question. Ming Yi’s eyebrows quirk, his head tilting.

‘That’s your deepest regret?’

Xie Lian offers no further explanation.

‘Yes, it is.’

But when his fingers grasp the chain around his neck, Hua Cheng’s eyes darken with understanding.

Ironically enough, the fact that Xie Lian was a deep sleeper back then was his greatest source of comfort.

Wu Ming had to experience the alternative.

Watching.

In a strange way, Hua Cheng’s idea of the most profound suffering and his god’s deepest regrets are parallel to one another.

Watching the greatest love of his life being cut into over and over again, trapped within the palm of Bai Wuxiang’s hand.

Just as he watched his mother suffer.

And Xie Lian’s deepest regret—

Not being able to spare Hong-er from the same fate.

But in that state, Hua Cheng knows—his god would have tried with all his might, but he couldn’t have saved him from that.

He only would have suffered more.

Staying silent was a final act of sacrifice.

Of protecting the Crown Prince from the most painful experience there is.

(But, even after eight centuries of trying—

Hong’er cannot spare his god from that forever.)

‘…Are you finished?’ He mutters, sending one harsh stare in Ming Yi’s direction.

When the earth master doesn’t reply one way or another, the dice are rolled once more—and when they land, Xie Lian lets out an exhale of relief as the numbers are read out.

He rolled a one again, Hua Cheng a six—

And both Shi Qingxuan and Ming Yi have each rolled a two.

By heaven official’s blessings—they won!

‘HA!’ The Wind Master’s response is the same in defeat as it was in victory, crossing her arms defiantly. ‘Give me your WORST!’

‘I will,’ Xie Lian agrees. ‘But Ming Yi can go first—I need you to answer these questions for me, and you must be honest.’

Shi Qingxuan grins, chuckling as she slaps her friend on the back.

‘That’s easy! Ming-Xiong is the sort of person who doesn’t even know how to lie!’

Hua Cheng coughs, covering his mouth with his hand, and Xie Lian continues—

‘First—who am I?’

Ming Yi sends him an odd look, his expression impossible to read.

‘The Crown Prince of Xianle, Xie Lian.’

Xie Lian reaches over, placing a hand on Hua Cheng’s arm.

‘And who is sitting beside me?’

There’s a brief pause, one that Xie Lian wasn’t expecting—and Ming Yi reaches up, pressing one hand to his temple with a wince.

‘Ming-Xiong?’ Shi Qingxuan frowns, reaching up to touch his cheek. ‘Are you alright?’

Ming Yi leans away sharply.

‘I’m fine,’ he mutters, shaking his head. ‘Just a headache.’ Slowly, he turns his gaze to Hua Cheng—and he replies evenly.

‘The Lord of Ghost City, Crimson Rain Sought Flower.’

Xie Lian is slightly baffled by the response—but they’re still on track.

Finally, he lifts his finger in Shi Qingxuan’s direction, asking his final question firmly—

“And who is sitting beside you, Earth Master Ming Yi?”

Once again the dark haired official falls silent, watching Xie Lian with an intent, narrowed gaze.

That’s the one benefit of spending nearly six months with a venerable of empty words following him—Xie Lian learned quite a bit about the spirits.

Including the fact that, for every three sentences out of a venerable of empty words’ mouth—at least one of them must be a lie.

He’s answered the first two questions truthfully—and now, it’s just about seeing what he does with the third.

Ming Yi’s silence stretches even longer this time, and Shi Qingxuan rolls her eyes, elbowing him in the side. ‘What are you holding up the round for?! Just answer!’

Of course, it might be easy for someone else to hide such a trait—but for someone as soft spoken as Ming Yi, who is monosyllabic most of the time, always curt—

It’s impossible to disguise a lie when he speaks so plainly.

‘…He is one of the five elemental masters. The Younger brother of Water Master Shi Wudu. The Wind Master, Shi Qingxuan.’

Well.

Xie Lian fights back the urge to frown, back to being completely stumped.

That answers his question.

But while Xie Lian might have achieved his goal—discerning whether or not the jinx monster was among them—he’s also drawn the earth master’s suspicion.

“We only asked one question before.”

The Crown Prince smiles.

“Ah, but I never said you could only ask one.”

That might be true—and maybe Shi Qingxuan would be willing to laugh that off and prattle on about how Xie Lian was being a sneak, but…

Ming Yi has just as much reason to be suspicious of them as they do of him, doesn’t he?

“…Crimson Rain, what are you playing at?”

He stares at Hua Cheng, whom he hasn’t addressed directly since they used the traveling array. “What does a Ghost King gain from meddling with a game of dice?”

“…” Hua Cheng raises an eyebrow—and his response is subtle, but resoundingly clear.

He stretches one leg out in front of him, the other pulled up against his chest, leaning back on one palm—and his stance might seem lazy, but in reality…it leaves him leaning far closer to the prince than he was before.

A casual show of intent.

“I’ll do whatever amuses me.”

He drawls the words, his tone dripping with cocksure arrogance.

‘…Why did you all start talking out loud and not in the communication array?’ Shi Qingxuan speaks up, with a frown, looking around the group and crossing her arms. ‘I’m this close to taking these out!’

By that, of course, she means the earplugs.

‘Let’s not be hasty!’ Xie Lian interrupts her quickly, holding his hands up—and when he does, Hua Cheng’s eyes drift to the side, taking in a startling sight.

The divine statues in the temple of Wind and Water…have begun to bleed.

Well, that wouldn’t be entirely accurate.

In truth, they’ve started to cry tears of blood, rivers of red dripping down white marble cheeks.

‘That’s pretty fucking theatrical.’

He Xuan’s reply, sharp, anxious, makes his skin prickle with a chill.

‘That wasn’t me either.’

The smirk slowly fades from Hua Cheng’s face.

And if it isn’t He Xuan—he has no reason not to interfere.

He leans over, whispering in Xie Lian’s ear to let him know what’s happening—and the crown prince straightens, turning to Shi Qingxuan.

“Lady Wind Master—cover your eyes!”

He shouts that in the array all of the sudden, and Shi Qingxuan’s first instinct is to panic, whipping her head around until she sees the blood—and when she does, she chokes with terror.

‘What—?!’

‘The venerable of empty words must have realized you can’t hear!’

So, it’s decided to find another way to get it’s message through.

The blood is streaming across the floor, crawling up the wall at an unnatural angle—beginning to write something, and Shi Qingxuan scrambles behind Ming Yi, her breathing speeding up.

‘W-Wha—I-I don’t—!’

She’s clearly not listening—and Xie Lian takes matters into his own hands, his expression turning grim.

“Rouye!” He orders, his spiritual device unfurling from around his neck, flying over to wrap itself around Shi Qingxuan’s head.

‘Oh!’ She gasps, ‘What—?’

‘It’s for your own good,’ Xie Lian explains, ‘If you can’t see it or hear it—it can’t do anything to you.’

Then, out loud, he speaks to Hua Cheng and Ming Yi, “We should all get out of here. Having her in this place is clearly only agitating things further.”

They hurry down the steps, and while Xie Lian is more than used to navigating without his sight, poor Shi Qingxuan is stumbling every other step, grabbing Ming Yi by the arm.

‘M-Ming-Xiong?’ She mumbles into the private array, trying to distract herself.

‘What now?’

‘Before, when you were answering t-the prince’s questions—’

Ming Yi stiffens, absolutely certain that she’s about to ask him what was going on, but—

‘Why didn’t you just say ‘my best friend’ instead of all of that other stuff?!’

The earth master pauses, looking down at her.

Even with her eyes hidden behind Rouye and her ears plugged, she manages to look slightly indignant—her lower lip jutting out, hands on her hips.

And now, when she can’t see, for the briefest of moments—

His gaze softens.

‘Who is that?’ He asks flatly.

‘…MING-XIONG!’

‘That’s what you get for worrying about something like that at a time like this.’

‘A time like this?! You should be NICE to me at a time like this!’

Xie Lian reaches up to rub his temples, wondering if they’re going to get anywhere at this rate, and then…

It becomes clear that leaving the temple was a mistake.

At first, Xie Lian just hears the rush of a crowd moving toward them—mortals, and from the disgusted sounds of onlookers nearby, the prince can guess as to what’s going on:

The night march of the Bloody Fire Social.

The same troupe of actors painted in gore, all dressed in black cloaks—but this time, the four of them are standing directly in the troupe’s path—

And they quickly become surrounded.

“Say, say! What do we have here?”

“Guests in our town of Fu Gu?”

One actor leers close to Xie Lian, not seeming to realize that the prince can’t see him—or the gaping wound of his throat, slit ear to ear.

“Won’t you spare a lowly offer some change, kind sir?” He reaches out with a blood soaked grin.

Ming Yi doesn’t speak or react, his eyes locked on the wound painted into the actor’s neck—but Hua Cheng is quick as a flash, slapping the actor’s hand away.

“Who do you think you’re speaking to?” He questions coldly.

The man stops, looking up at him—and quickly grows pale, even beneath the deathly pallor of his makeup.

Because the young man standing before him is tall, slender—by all means simply a well dressed youth.

But the moment the actor reached out for the white robed priest beside him, his eyes burned bright red, like two points of hellfire within his skull.

The actor staggers back, and Hua Cheng grips Xie Lian’s elbow firmly, keeping the prince by his side.

Xie Lian isn’t about to complain, disoriented by the crowd of actors milling around them—and that’s when he feels it.

This sharp, cold, prickling feeling rushing down his spine as a breeze rushes by, and with it…

Xie Lian sees that dark aura once more.

“IT’S HERE!”

It rushes past him in a dark cloud—and this time, the prince isn’t too stunned to react. He reaches out, striking with the flat of his palm—and when he does—

He feels that dark, resentful energy coalesce into something solid.

An arm.

But it darts back into the crowd.

Xie Lian grits his teeth in frustration—and in a moment of desperation, he does something that he hasn’t resorted to before, looking up at his companion. “San Lang—I need some spiritual power, I’ll pay you back later!”

Hua Cheng’s response is instantaneous.

“Alright.”

The hand on Xie Lian’s elbow slips down to grasp his own, and with it, Xie Lian feels a rush of soft warmth.

Then, without hesitating, he lifts his palm—firing off a bolt of light direction of the dark figure.

When Xie Lian has borrowed spiritual energy before—whether it was from Shi Qingxuan or Nan Feng, they always gave him as much as he needed.

But not like this.

The amount of power that leaves Xie Lian’s body is so great, it even startles him—and when it crashes into the building they just left—the temple of wind and water—the entire structure collapses into a pit of rubble.

“…”

“Was that enough?” Hua Cheng questions innocently, still holding Xie Lian’s hand. “You can have as much as you like.”

The prince fights the urge to turn his head and gawk at him, after all—

Perhaps Xie Lian is accustomed to having no spiritual energy—but this is immense.

Nothing compared to what it felt like without his shackles, certainly—but far more power than any normal god would be able to give out on a limb, much less a ghost.

Hua Cheng doesn’t even sound winded.

“…No, no,” Xie Lian shakes his head, his voice faint. “That was plenty.”

The ghost king shrugs, not seeming troubled either way, and Xie Lian speaks out into the communication array.

‘Lady Wind Master, where are you? We should find a different place to regroup and make a new plan.’

There’s faint groaning, and Xie Lian hears her mutter in reply;

‘Do you have to shout your highness? Ming-Xiong led me through the crowd with all of you, I’m right here!’

Slowly, Hua Cheng turns his head to see Ming Yi standing beside them, and Xie Lian hears the earth master speak sharply into the communication array—

‘That wasn’t me!’

Xie Lian’s stomach sinks, his expression going strained as he looks around, trying to find the familiar green cloud of Shi Qingxuan’s aura—but it’s nowhere to be seen.

Nor is the dark shape of the venerable of empty words.

‘Lady Wind Master—what’s going on? Where are you?’

When there’s no immediate reply, Xie Lian directs his words at Ming Yi—

“Why didn’t you hold onto her when we came into the street?”

After all—two of her senses were sealed, and she isn’t like Xie Lian—she wouldn’t have been able to see the spiritual power of her abductor.

“I did!” Ming Yi retorts, seeming oddly agitated. “But there was a panic after you fired on the spirit, and people were being trampled.”

Xie Lian pauses, sheepish—because it was a rational choice. After all—Shi Qingxuan’s immortal body wouldn’t have been harmed.

Ming Yi simply made the choice to save the mortals first—but in doing so, he lost Shi Qingxuan.

But that would have been only moments ago—surely, not even more than a minute’s time.

“…She couldn’t have made it far,” Xie Lian mutters. “We should split up and look.”

Just as he begins to say this—laughter echoes throughout the communication array, boisterous as ever.

But Xie Lian has known the Wind Master long enough to learn one thing:

She laughs when she’s nervous.

‘Lady Wind Master?’ He replies fretfully. ‘Are you alright?’

The reply he receives is…well…

‘HAHAHAHA…WHY WOULDN’T I BE ALRIGHT? HAHAHA...I WAS ONLY TRYINGTOSCAREYOUGUYSIT’SFINE! MING-XIONG, HOWDAREYOUFUCKINGLETGO OFMYHANDIFIDIE I’M COMINGBACKTOHAUNTYOU AS A CALAMITY…HAHAHAHA!’

Instead of apologizing however, Ming Yi interrupts her—abandoning his usual tone of boredom. Instead…

He sounds genuinely concerned.

‘Would you stop babbling nonsense and tell us what’s going on?!’

Xie Lian is quiet for a moment.

He’s harbored mild suspicions about the friendship between Shi Qingxuan since the Mid Autumn Festival—and while he couldn’t say whether or not the two are actually intimate…

It’s obvious that Ming Yi cares for the Wind Master deeply.

In which case—the Crown Prince trusts himself more to remain levelheaded, so he interrupts.

‘Have you said anything since it led you away? Does it know that you know it isn’t Ming Yi?’

‘…I don’t think so.’

Xie Lian’s tone becomes gentle—trying to soothe her.

‘That’s good. Stay calm, pretend you have no idea what’s happening. Remember—it can only feed off of your fear if you react. Try spreading a spiritual barrier around your body—that should protect you if you trip and fall, and you’ll sense any attacks coming.’

‘…Okay,’ Shi Qingxuan croaks, her voice thick with emotion, cracking slightly. ‘Then what?’

Hua Cheng’s eyes flicker to the left, taking in the way Ming Yi’s hands are balled into tight fists at his sides, his knuckles a stark shade of white.

He’s a good actor—he always has been.

But this doesn’t seem like part of the charade—or whatever plans Ming Yi would have had.

‘Take a few deep breaths, nice and slow.’ Xie Lian advises, his voice soft and gentle.

He’s always been good at soothing people when they’re frightened—and his presence has always been a comforting one.

(To everyone, of course, except himself.)

‘Do you feel any better?’

‘…A little,’ Shi Qingxuan replies shakily. ‘Thank you.’

She sounds a little less frantic than she did before—so, Xie Lian decides to try his luck.

‘Do you think you could move Rouye and see who is with you?’

Xie Lian is trying to make the order himself, of course—but the spiritual device isn’t responding.

‘If I do, I’ll probably die.’

No frantic giggling follows this time.

Xie Lian pinches the bridge of his nose with a sigh.

It makes sense. The moment she opens her eyes and sees the creature—her terror would likely spike to a point where it could devour her entirely.

‘After they took you from the temple of wind and water—what direction did you go in? How many steps have you taken?’ Ming Yi inquires, and Xie Lian finds himself feeling even more hopeless.

If he can’t command Rouye—she isn’t close, not at all.

‘…I don’t know.’

‘What do you mean, you don’t know?!’

‘Why would I keep track of that if I thought I was with you?! I just felt a flash of energy, and I thought you carried me out of the way!’

‘Is it still carrying you now?’ Xie Lian interrupts.

‘No…no,’ Shi Qingxuan’s voice trembles.

‘It set me down a little while ago.’

And if it had picked her up and rushed off with her rather suddenly, the moment Xie Lian threw that bolt of energy…

The prince goes still, gripping Hua Cheng’s hand even more tightly, not realizing that he was still holding onto it.

“…The travel array,” Xie Lian mutters, turning toward Hua Cheng and Ming Yi. “It must have taken her through the travel array before the building was destroyed.”

Meaning she could be anywhere by now, and they have no way of knowing how to find her.

‘…I’m going to report this to the Heavens,’ Xie Lian starts, preparing to ascend that instance, but Shi Qingxuan pleads in the communication array—

‘You can’t! My brother—his calamity is coming soon, and the third is supposed to be the worst of them all! Don’t tell him!’

‘If you don’t stop being so fucking ridiculous, I’ll put you through a calamity right now,’ Ming Yi growls—but Shi Qingxuan, in spite of her obvious terror, remains absolutely firm.

‘I said NO! Do you have any idea how much pressure he’s under?How many people are watching him?!”

Shi Qingxuan is absolutely vehement, and it’s almost admirable.

Xie Lian was always an only child, but even among siblings, the Shi brothers seem to share a deeper bond of loyalty than most.

‘You think I’m stupid?! I KNOW this thing chose to attack me now on purpose!’

And while Shi Qingxuan might not be as strong as her brother—or as brave as someone like Xie Lian—the prince has come to recognize the level of devotion that the Wind Master has to those close to her, a rare thing.

‘I don’t care if it chews me up and spits me out, no one else is going to know about it until AFTER the trial, you hear me?! Even if it KILLS ME!’

Xie Lian is almost startled by the level of anger he senses from Ming Yi—so sudden, so intense, it seems to weigh down the very air.

‘Fine.’ He replies coldly, ‘If that’s what you want.’

This is getting them absolutely nowhere, but—

There is one way to deal with this that they haven’t tried, and it seems to be the only thing left to do.

‘…Alright—I have an idea to get you away, but I need your permission.’

Beside him, Hua Cheng stiffens—and Shi Qingxuan agrees immediately, not even asking what it is.

‘You have my permission, your highness!’

Hua Cheng suddenly grips his hand firmly, his eyes locked on Xie Lian’s face. “…The soul shifting spell?”

It’s exactly what it sounds like—allowing the two people involved to switch souls. The cost of using it is enormous—and most aren’t willing to allow their body to be inhabited by someone else anyway, but Xie Lian doesn’t see another way.

“That’s right.”

“…Gege—”

‘What are you gonna do when you have to face it?’ Shi Qingxuan frets, worried for him.

Xie Lian is rarely sure of anything, particularly with regards to himself—but now, he sounds entirely sure.

“It can’t frighten me, so it’s fine.”

After all—he’s faced a venerable of empty words twice by now—and each time, he was the worst sort of enemy for creatures like that to face.

Because in all of these years—what has frightened him, other than his own nightmares?

Maybe when San Lang leapt into the Sinner’s Pit, and Xie Lian hadn’t known if he would be alright, but…

Ming Yi stares at the Crown Prince of Xianle, his expression conflicted—but he seems to move past that quickly.

“Do it.”

Hua Cheng sends him a deathly glare.

“Your highness, please reconciler.”

Xie Lian shakes his head—knowing that there isn’t a better option available. Still—before he opens his mouth to activate the spell…

He stops himself.

“…Gege?”

There’s a long pause—a heavy one, with Xie Lian’s expression becoming torn.

Slowly, he reaches up and around his neck, lifting the chain sitting there, carefully gathering it up with the ring in his palm.

He’s only taken it off once, eight centuries ago.

And back then, it was Wu Ming’s ghost fire that he left to guard the ashes.

But Shi Qingxuan likely won’t be able to do much while she’s in his body—unaccustomed to the blindness or the shackles. So, the best thing to do…

Xie Lian curls his fingers around the ring tightly, biting his lip—and he turns to Hua Cheng.

“San Lang—could you please keep this safe for me until I get my body back?” The prince murmurs, holding his hand up.

Hua Cheng hesitates, but when he reaches out to take it—Xie Lian grips one of his vambraces tightly, anxiety etched across his face.

“It’s the most important thing I have,” he emphasizes—knowing that Hua Cheng would be careful with any of his possessions—

But this is different.

“…” Hua Cheng’s expression is impossible to read—countless emotions flickering through his eyes.

But his gaze softens.

“It’s safe with me, dianxia.” The ghost king reassures him quietly.

Ironically, it’s the first time he’s actually managed to touch his own ashes—much less hold them in the palm of his hand.

They feel heavier than he expected, sitting solidly on top of his skin.

Xie Lian nods—and as difficult as it is, he lets go of Hua Cheng’s hand, leaning back.

His neck feels painfully bare without the chain hanging around there.

But this won’t take long.

Hua Cheng frowns, disapproving. “Your highness, we should think of something else.”

Xie Lian shakes his head, stubbornly resolved. “There isn’t enough time.”

“Gege—”

‘Lady Wind Master, are you ready?’

‘Yes, your highness!’

In an instant, Xie Lian’s body becomes feather light—almost like he might float away—and then, he comes crashing down to earth.

The first thing he notices is the softness of the grass beneath his feet. The sounds of the forest in the air—and just from the smell of the earth, the prince knows that he’s much further north than he was before.

And back in the village of Fu Gu—his real body collapses.

Hua Cheng catches Xie Lian’s form before it hits the ground, cradling it in his arms—and when the first noise he hears nearly makes the calamity become frantic.

A broken, pained moan.

“Gege?!”

In the early days of Xie Lian’s banishment, he always wore bandages around his eyes—simply because he wasn’t in the habit of always keeping them shut and couldn’t afford to reveal his cursed shackle.

In the years since, however—he’s forgone such a measure.

His other shackles on his throat and ankle are covered with bandages—but now, Xie Lian typically just keeps his eyes shut, or covers them with a hood pulled low over his head.

But now—the prince’s eyes are wide open, pained, and terrified.

“I—your highness, I can’t—!”

Xie Lian’s voice echoes through the array, sympathetic, but soothing.

‘It’s alright, Lady Wind Master—take deep breaths.’

“But I—!” Shi Qingxuan reaches up to clutch at her throat, trembling violently in Hua Cheng’s arms, and finally—he begins to understand what’s happening.

“I can’t breathe!” She whispers.

As a matter of fact—the moment she was dropped into the crown prince’s body, that was the first thing she felt.

Aches in every part of her body—a blinding headache, overwhelming exhaustion—

And like something was squeezing around her neck.

‘Yes, you can,’ Xie Lian assures her. ‘Just inhale slowly through your nose, out through your mouth. It won’t be for too long.’

That’s when Shi Qingxuan notices that the pain seems to be concentrated around her eyes, her throat, and her ankle.

Not only is the weight immense—but it feels like needles pickling through her skin, grinding down sharply until they hit the bone.

And that sensation is the most painful in her eyes, making her clutch at them while curled in on herself, shrinking in Hua Cheng’s arms.

Ming Yi kneels down beside them, reaching for her shoulder—but the wrath of Hua Cheng’s glare is so intense, his hand freezes in mid air.

After all—it might be Shi Qingxuan’s soul in there at the moment, but it’s still the Crown Prince of Xianle’s body.

Shi Qingxuan isn’t complaining, despite the fact that she’s being cradled by a deadly calamity, the most feared creature in the Heavens.

If anything, she’s shocked to discover that Crimson Rain Sought Flower’s arms are surprisingly gentle—

And that he smells nice.

Faintly of smoke and iron—but also like the forest, just after the rain.

That thought almost makes her smile through the discomfort, and Ming Yi glares fitfully, frustrated by the fact that he can’t get any closer.

“What are you smiling about at a time like this?”

“…You smell like your name,” She mumbles under her breath—and Hua Cheng levels her with an utterly baffled look, until she speaks again into the array—

‘Your highness, is this what it feels like for you all the time?’

There’s a beat of silence, and he finally answers:

‘You get used to it.’

Hua Cheng’s becomes stone faced.

‘Gege, can you see where you are?’

After another beat, he replies again.

‘I’m about to.’

Then, there’s nothing else—and the ghost king speaks into the array again, agitated.

‘Your highness?’

Silence follows.

Xie Lian, similarly to Shi Qingxuan, is experiencing an array of new sensations—mainly the /lack/ of pain, and even more so how light and limber his body feels.

…Is it truly that easy to walk?

Do breaths come so naturally to others?

It feels like walking on clouds.

It makes him remember how much he loved to run as a child, flitting from place to place, how light he felt.

He thought he had simply grown out of such things—but now, he finds himself filled with doubt.

And aside from that—there’s a hand gripping his arm, pulling him along.

Xie Lian reaches up with his free hand, giving Rouye a gentle tap where it sits over his eyes—and while the spiritual device is startled, it recognizes a signal that Xie Lian has given many times before, slithering away.

The hand starts to jerk back, noticing the movement from Rouye—

But Xie Lian is faster, flipping his wrist around, dainty, perfectly manicured fingers catching the figure’s wrist in a death grip.

His lips curve up into a faint smile.

“Hello there.”

It’s nighttime, so it takes his eyes a couple of moments to adjust to the darkness, but—

He can see.

The shapes of the leaves on the trees around him. The slope on the mountain trail beneath their feet.

And he can see the dark color of the sleeve that he’s holding.

Connected to someone tall, broad shouldered, his face turned away.

“You aren’t Shi Qingxuan,” the voice comments slowly.

“No,” Xie Lian agrees, digging his fingers in tightly. “Should we introduce ourselves?”

“…Yes,” the figure replies quietly. “I think we should.”

But when it turns it’s head, Xie Lian’s smile drops from his face, all of the color in his cheeks retreating.

“W…” He starts to take a step back, letting go of it’s sleeve, but it reverses their grip again, gripping Xie Lian’s arm before he can flee.

“What’s wrong, your highness?”

A white, smiling mask stares back at him, and Xie Lian feels his heart begin to pound in his chest.

Remembering that mask, among the last things he ever saw, devoured by a swirling fog of hate.

“Who are you?” The prince whispers, lips trembling.

“You know who I am,” it replies gently, in a voice that sounds so familiar—like a hunter imitating a bird’s call, enticing it to swoop back to it’s nest.

To protect it’s young, or a mate.

The Wind Master has a kind face, soft and delicate.

Now, it twists into a snarl.

/CRACK!/

The creature is forced to retreat when a strike lands on it’s arm—so brutal, it’s broken on impact, bent at an impossible angle.

Xie Lian snaps the Wind Master’s fan shut, his eyes narrowed—and when he speaks, his voice—

“You are NOT Wu Ming.”

It’s /murderous./

The white ceramic mask gleams in the moonlight, and Xie Lian watches as the surface begins to change in shape and texture—until it almost looks like a human face, covered in wet, white paint.

And it cracks open, revealing rows of needle like teeth.

“You don’t recognize me?”

It’s arm cracks and twists, slowly returning itself back to it’s original state.

“Why don’t you just go ahead and tell me who you are?” Xie Lian glares, building a spiritual barrier around Shi Qingxuan’s fan, sharp as a blade.

‘Your highness!’ She protests in their array.

‘What are you doing with my fan?! That’s a sacred spiritual device! It’s a GIFT FROM THE EMPEROR!’

That’s something any martial god will do—turn an unrelated weapon into a sword.

Old habits die hard.

‘Gege, what’s going on?!’

Xie Lian shuts the array out, and that jagged gaping scar of a grin widens.

“You will.”

Before it can say more, Xie Lian loses patience, launching himself forward, striking out with the fan—

But this creature is quick, and it dodged the first blow, then the second.

But the third—the third blow hits, and with it, Xie Lian is able to slice off it’s right hand with sheer sharpened spiritual power alone, tackling it to the ground.

“Who are you?!” He snaps, one hand holding the blade to the creature’s throat, while his other claws at that mask.

The material is almost wet under his fingers, like mud—but slowly, it begins to smear away as he scrapes his fingernails against the skin underneath, and slowly, a familiar face is revealed.

One not so different from his own, but time has rendered it nearly unfamiliar.

Still, Xie Lian flinches back, wrenching Shi Qingxuan’s fan away from the monster’s throat as he falls back on the ground, scrambling back.

The figure sits up slowly, white fragments of the mask dripping from it’s face, clattering to the forest floor.

“What’s wrong, Xie Lian?”

The King of Xianle’s face doesn’t look the way it did when he died.

Not the old, broken man that he became, a preview of what his son would be worn into over the centuries.

Fractured, hopeless, and alone.

No.

This is Xie Lian’s father from when he was just a child.

Not a streak of gray in sight. Young, strong, his smile gentle as he turns to look at Xie Lian—but it’s not right.

Xie Lian’s father had expressive eyes. He could never hide what he was feeling.

This creature—

It’s eyes are like dead pits in it’s face.

It repeats itself.

“What’s wrong, Xie Lian?”

It lurches forward in sharp, quick movements—almost like a spider, never moving at a natural pace—

And it approaches Xie Lian on all fours, crawling like a beast, a deranged smile stretching across his face.

“Did you have a nightmare?”

It finds it’s severed hand on the way, reaching down to grab the abandoned piece of flash, pressing it against the stump of his wrist until the two knit back together, reattaching.

Xie Lian grits his teeth, kicking out with his foot when it gets too close.

The blow lands directly on it’s neck, caving it in—but that doesn’t seem to stop the creature, it’s hands still clawing forward in the dirt, his father’s face smiling up at him.

“Don’t be scared,” It rasps, smiling wider and wider, eyes vacant and bulging.

“Don’t be scared, Xie Lian, don’t be scared.”

He kicks out again, this time snapping the creature’s neck, making it fall limp, it’s head lolling around.

“Don’t be scared!” It wheezes, it’s voice breaking up with laugher. “DON’T BE—”

/CRACK!/

The next kick is so violent, it sends it’s head flying from it’s shoulders, rolling away into the grass—and as the creature scrambles over to pick it up, Xie Lian attempts to address Shi Qingxuan’s form.

After all—Lady Wind Master’s legs are rather short, and she doesn’t have as much muscle as Xie Lian does in his male form. But Shi Qingxuan’s male form is taller, and slightly more suited for battle.

Still, when he tries to perform the spell to switch genders—

Nothing happens.

‘…Lady Wind Master, are you stopping me from changing your form?’ He asks in the communication array, ignoring Hua Cheng’s repeated calls of his name in his private one. ‘I tried, but nothing’s happening.’

‘Oh?’ Shi Qingxuan replies, sounding genuinely surprised.

‘That’s strange. Maybe it’s a side effect of the soul switching spell?’

Xie Lian hasn’t used the spell before, so he wouldn’t know.

‘In any case, it’s fine! I’m stronger in my female form, you know! I—!’

Xie Lian cuts off the communication array again.

Well.

He clutches Shi Qingxuan’s fan tighter, surveying the trees around him.

Her body might not be as suited to combat—but she isn’t that much smaller—and Xie Lian can make up for the lack of muscle with spiritual power.

“Don’t be scared…” That voice hisses again.

“Why would I be?” Xie Lian replies calmly. “What’s there to be afraid of?”

There’s a sour feeling in the air—almost as though he’s offended the creature from wherever it’s hiding in the underbrush, skulking like a rodent in the sewers below.

“Because you’re so sure Crimson Rain Sought Flower will save you?” It sneers. “He doesn’t even know where you are.”

Xie Lian raises an eyebrow, surprised by the animosity towards Hua Cheng—who has the least to do with any of this.

“I don’t need him to save me,” he shrugs.

“But if he was here, this would be going far worse for you.”

After all—Xie Lian might have broken it’s arm and decapitated it, but Hua Cheng…

If Hua Cheng had seen the way it had been crawling towards Xie Lian—the god is fairly sure that it would have been incinerated.

“Such faith in a ghost…” The voice echoes from different points in the trees, as though the creature is disappearing and reappearing at different locations in the forest. “Not the first time, hmm?”

The vague reference to Wu Ming makes him grit his teeth, his eyes flashing.

But…how does he even know about that?

And how does this creature know what Xie Lian’s father looked like?

“…Imagine having such faith in a man…when you don’t even know what he looks like…”

Xie Lian hears scuttling across the ground, almost like an insect.

“…Aren’t you curious?” The voice purrs, appearing behind his ear. Black painted fingernails appear on his shoulder, a large hand gripping him there as lips whisper next to his ear. “I could show you…”

The prince doesn’t jump—or even flinch.

Instead, he calmly turns his head—and when he sees the face before him, the rotting flesh, bone poking through, fangs and a slithering forked tongue, he smiles.

“San Lang doesn’t look like that, silly.”

“How would you know?” The creature looms over him.

“That man is always changing his face.”

As it says this, it’s form flickers constantly before Xie Lian’s eyes, from one horror to the next.

“Because he showed me his true form already,” the crown prince replies. “I think I’ll take his word over yours.”

Of course—he hasn’t actually SEEN Hua Cheng’s face—but he’s felt it beneath his hands before. Enough to know that he isn’t deformed or mangled, not in the way that this creature is trying to present.

“You think you’re so clever don’t you, child?” The creature sneers.

“You think I don’t know how much power that spell requires?”

Xie Lian’s smile slowly begins to fade.

“I just have to wait,” the creature purrs, it’s fingers curling tighter and tighter around Xie Lian’s shoulders, bruising them. “Then, it’ll be just me and the wind master.”

it’s not wrong. All it has to do is dodge and stall. Even with how much energy Hua Cheng lent him—Xie Lian has no stores of his own, and no means of producing more.

He’ll run out before the end of the hour, at best.

‘Gege,’ Hua Cheng is still speaking into their private array.

‘Gege, just use the Wind Master’s fan to send up a whirlwind—I’ll see it, and I’ll come to you.’

Xie Lian nods faintly—because that’s a good idea. It means that the Wind Master’s body won’t be left alone with this creature, even when the spell runs out.

But when he lifts up the Wind Master’s fan, preparing to do as he asks—

Arms wrap around his middle from behind, pulling him back against an unfamiliar chest, and lips whisper next to his ear,

“Are you calling him? That’s good.”

The prince ignores him, until—

“I’ll hang him, too.”

Xie Lian’s hand goes still—and for the first time in so long, he experiences an unfamiliar feeling.

Hairs on the back of his neck standing up, his blood turning to ice.

‘Gege,’ Hua Cheng calls him again, and for the first time—

‘Please, talk to me.’

He doesn’t know if he’s ever heard Hua Cheng say ‘Please’ before, or anything of the sort. He’s not the pleading type.

But it’s that last part of the creature’s sentence that slips under his defenses, and in those cracks—

There’s fear.

I’ll hang him, too.

Too.

‘Don’t.’

Xie Lian’s voice speaks up suddenly in the communication array, and Hua Cheng replies frantically—

‘Don’t what? Gege, I—!’

‘Don’t come!’ Xie Lian replies sharply. ‘Whatever you do, do NOT come!’

‘What’s going on?!’

The prince cuts out the array again, his fan still aloft.

Behind him, the creature waits for a response. For the terror it’s looking for, but—

When Xie Lian turns his head around, his eyes burn brightly in the dark, flashing green with rage.

“You’re going to fucking what, now?” He asks coldly, his voice gaining an echoing quality.

Before it can respond—Xie Lian strikes out.

Not with the fan, but with his bare hand.

Shi Qingxuan’s hand might be small—but it’s plenty big enough to grab the creature by the front of the throat, squeezing until the airway crunches under his fingertips.

“Say it again.”

Xie Lian lifts him up, staring up at him coldly, watching that face flicker over and over again, changing into countless monstrous versions of one beast.

“Do you think you’ll survive long enough for any of that?”

But there’s something even more infuriating about it.

The creature is smiling.

Smiling down at him like Xie Lian has said the funniest thing in the world—it just can’t laugh about it right now, not without it’s voice box intact.

And just as Xie Lian is about to snap it’s neck a second time—it turns into a cloud of smoke.

It swirls around in the air for a moment before flickering back towards the safety of the tree line, clearly meaning to make a break for it—

But Xie Lian has no such plans of allowing it to get away.

“Rouye.” His steps forward are slow, methodical.

The silk bandage is actually hesitant to return to him.

After all, it recognizes that tone very well.

The same tone Xie Lian used in the Sinner’s Pit, when he commanded the device to hang Ke Mo.

The same voice he used in the fallen kingdom of Xianle, ordering Rouye to kill.

But this situation is different.

Because in both of those instances, Xie Lian was operating the device without any spiritual power.

And that’s the thing about Rouye. The thing that no one else quite knows.

Xie Lian brings Shi Qingxuan’s hand up to his lips.

Normally, he wouldn’t resort to using his own teeth—but the Wind Master is not a martial god, and doesn’t have any blades on her person.

But his canines do the trick—breaking skin until blood streams past his fingertips—and Rouye is quick to wrap around his palm, drinking it up.

And when it does—it begins to glow brightly in the dark.

No one knows how Rouye was born. Nearly everyone assumes the bandage was a gift from Jun Wu—a means for Xie Lian to protect himself during his banishment.

But even Jun Wu doesn’t understand what the device truly is.

A demon.

Born from the blood and suffering of a god. From the death of a king and queen.

And in those rare moments when Xie Lian can offer it spiritual energy, well.

It becomes a different weapon entirely.

“Hunt it.”

The bandage whips around like a snake with a rattling tail

And when it disappears into the tree line, Xie Lian kicks aside Shi Qingxuan’s shoes, finding the delicate material of the slippers to be a hindrance.

It can’t stay in a non-solid state for long. Xie Lian has gleaned that much from watching it.

And it won’t be able to escape Rouye. Not in a situation like this. Then, Xie Lian can bind it. Then, Xie Lian can piece it apart until he isn’t terrified of that word anymore.

Too.

I’ll hang him, too.

Why did it say that?

Hua Cheng is still calling out in the array.

Xie Lian can’t bring himself to listen.

He’s a ghost king. A calamity born from the Kilns of Mount Tonglu.

Xie Lian knows that.

He knows that, and—

I’ll hang him, too.

Those words filled him with instant, irrational terror.

Followed by a rage beyond his control.

But it’s different, this time.

This a time, he has spiritual power.

This time, he can see.

This time, he has Rouye—

But when Xie Lian catches himself in that train of thought…

He stops chasing after it.

‘This time.’

He keeps saying ‘this time,’ in his thoughts.

For there to be a ‘this time,’ that implies the existence of a ‘last time,’ and now, Xie Lian realizes.

He’s been in this position before. This exact situation.

Antagonized by the loss of a loved one. Chasing a ghost down a mountainside, enraged.

And back then, it was a trap.

The wind blows through his hair, gently making it sway around him as he looks up towards the sky, the harvest moon almost sinister as it bears down upon the land with a golden glow.

It isn’t his first time chasing a ghost down a mountain path. Or even his second.

Once, he found an enemy.

The second time, a friend.

In Xie Lian’s experience, most things in his life tend to come in threes.

Too.

I’ll hang him, too.

He presses one hand against the side of his head, goosebumps rising down the back of his spine, trailing through his limbs.

This thing could only be after one of two things:

Luring Xie Lian further and further away, wasting time until his spiritual power runs out, and taking Shi Qingxuan captive.

That, or it’s true goal is something far more sinister:

Xie Lian himself.

If the latter were the case, Xie Lian isn’t sure why the venerable of empty words would want him, but…

“Rouye,” he takes a firm step back, holding the fan in an attack stance. “Return.”

It brings very little comfort when the bandage returns from the trees nearly immediately.

Which means that the creature, wherever it is—is close.

‘…San Lang.’

‘Dianxia.’ Hua Cheng’s voice isn’t gentle or pleading anymore, but brimming with barely contained frustration. ‘Where are you?’

‘I don’t know, but I need to ask you something,’ the prince replies.

‘What?’

‘Some venerables of empty words are stronger than others, right?’ He keeps his eyes focused on the tree line, Rouye circling around him in a defensive position, forming a gleaming white ring.

‘…Yes, like any other form of ghost,’ Hua Cheng agrees.

‘Which is why you should tell me where you are, now.’

Xie Lian doesn’t reply immediately, his mind moving faster and faster by the minute.

‘Ren Song told me something.’

Hua Cheng seems startled to hear Xie’s Lian bring the forest demon up now, of all times.

‘What?’

‘That if…he got someone inside his array…’ Xie Lian glances around, turning his head to make sure he can keep an eye on every vantage point, almost becoming dizzy from how quickly he’s checking.

‘…He could access their memories…’

‘What does that have to do with this?’

Because there’s only two ways it could know what Wu Ming looked like. What Xie Lian’s father looked like.

That it could have known the words ‘I’ll hang him, too,’ would draw such a reaction from the god.

First, if he had access to Xie Lian’s memories via some sort of spell.

And second…

‘San Lang,’ Xie Lian’s voice grows quiet as he turns his head once more.

There’s a shape in the darkness.

Only the lower half of a face can be seen.

A mouth, twisted into an overly wide smile—and the whites of it’s eyes can be seen flashing under the moonlight.

It would know those things if it was there when they happened.

‘San Lang,’ The prince repeats, but this time—his voice comes out as more of a croak.

‘I think it knows.’

‘Knows what?! Gege, just—!’

/Creak…/

Xie Lian’s heart leaps into his throat—and it never stops smiling.

/Creak…/

“Don’t you recognize me yet, your highness?” That mouth inquires, leaves rustling in the trees.

/Creak…/

With each repetition, that sound gets even louder—and Xie Lian’s stomach plummets further and further down, until it feels like a stone in free fall.

He knows that sound.

“No…” He chokes, stumbling backward, Rouye shrinking closer to him, forming a tighter protective coil.

That smile in the darkness widens—and Xie Lian sees blood dripping from it’s jaws, black underneath the moonlight.

“You asked me to say it again…”

It whispers, drinking in the meal it’s been waiting for.

Fear.

Xie Lian’s fear, dripping from every part of his body as his limbs begin to tremble.

“I’ll hang him…”

/Creak…/

Something is lowered into the clearing, dangling from the end of a long rope.

And Xie Lian—

He knows those boots.

Even with blood dripping from the soles, pooling on the ground. He—

He made them.

“I’ll hang him,” the voice croons, watching with delight as green eyes flood with tears.

“…Just like I hung Hong’er.”

/CREAK…/

The body drops down.

Xie Lian whips his head to the side, unable to bring himself to look at it.

He doesn’t want to see—

Xie Lian doesn’t want to see him. Not like that.

Instead, he looks back towards that face in the trees—and he sees it.

The thing from all of the nightmares he never remembers.

The moonlight slowly expands over him, exposing long, jet black hair, a solitary streak of gray shooting through his right temple.

Long white sleeves flutter in the wind—that of a mourning robe.

Now, Xie Lian doesn’t see a face at all. It’s—

A mask.

Half smiling, half crying.

Xie Lian stumbles to the side, barely catching himself by grabbing onto Rouye. He must have twisted his ankle slightly, but he doesn’t feel it.

Everything feels so far removed from him now—even his own heartbeat feels like an echo, rather than something connected to him.

And there’s someone screaming, and he just wishes they would stop, except that—

Oh.

That’s just him.

He’s screaming.

And this time, when he launches himself towards the figure—he doesn’t stop.

He’s not even sure if it’s out of grief, anger, or fear anymore.

All Xie Lian knows is that he wants it to stop.

Like there’s this broken chord inside of him, ringing louder and louder and louder—and if the doesn’t do something now, he’ll break apart.

Like a wounded animal, lashing out in desperation.

But for the first time in Xie Lian’s life—his strike doesn’t seem to land at all.

Actually—it feels like he’s falling, as though the forest floor has opened up beneath him, leaving him plummeting into darkness, darkness, darkness, until—

When Xie Lian opens his eyes—he isn’t in a moonlit forest on the mountainside.

Not anymore.

He’s in some sort of courtyard—this time in broad daylight—

And it isn’t cold, anymore.

Actually, it doesn’t smell or feel like any other place he’s ever been, and—

“Dianxia?”

Back in the city of Fu Gu, Hua Cheng, Ming Yi, and Shi Qingxuan are jolted to attention by one sound in their communication array.

One blood curdling, awful sound.

A scream.

Both Ming Yi and Shi Qingxuan flinch, unfamiliar with such a noise—but Hua Cheng has heard it before

His first night as a dead man, when the love of his life finally found his body.

The worst sound in the world. The only thing that can make the ghost king afraid, and after so many years of building up his armor—

He feels naked, broken, and stripped bare.

Ming Yi notices the look upon his face, opening his mouth to ask, but—

Before he can, black painted nails grip him by the throat, punching him so deeply into the ground, a crater is left in the shape of his body.

Then, the ghost king rounds on Shi Qingxuan.

“Switch back, NOW!” He snarls, nails biting into his palms until they bleed. If the Wind Master wasn’t inside Xie Lian’s body right now, he probably would have physically threatened him to get the point across—but that doesn’t seem to be necessary.

“I-I’m trying!” She croaks.

“He’s the one controlling the spell, and he won’t answer me!”

Hua Cheng pinches the bridge of his nose, trembling with anger.

“Before you switched, what kind of terrain was it?”

“Wh—?”

“If you waste my time, you won’t survive long enough for the venerable to get you.”

It’s startling—because Hua Cheng has never been what Shi Qingxuan would call ‘friendly’ towards her, but—

Clearly, he’s capable of turning absolutely ruthless on a dime.

“I—It was hard to tell, I was blindfolded and I couldn’t hear, but—I could smell pine trees.”

He turns away from her, pressing his fingertips against his temple, speaking into an entirely different array.

‘Shuo.’

Normally, there isn’t always an immediate response between the two of them, not if the other is busy—

But when Hua Cheng uses this tone, the reply is instant.

‘What is it, Hua Chengzhu?’

‘His highness is in danger,’ Hua Cheng expresses quickly, his tone clipped and matter of fact. ‘We’re forty kilometers from Qinghe now, and he was taken through a travel array—to somewhere on a mountain with pine.’

It might sound like a vague description—but to Autumn Twilight Shrouding Forests, it’s enough.

There are limits to the range of travel arrays, particularly those that have only been used once—so he has to be within a certain radius.

‘…Alright,’ the forest demon replies.

‘I’m going.’

‘There’s something dangerous with him—and he’s in the Wind Master’s body,’ Hua Cheng warns.

‘The soul switching spell?’

‘Yes.’

Normally, Shuo would ask more—but in a situation like this, he immediately sets himself to work, while Hua Cheng inhales deeply.

When he breathes out, he extends his senses, and along with it, his spiritual power.

The very same aura that he’s been restraining recently, not wanting to overwhelm Xie Lian with the sight of it at all times.

The mortals can’t see it—but it envelops the down of Fu Gu in a matter of seconds—and Shi Qingxuan, looking around through his cursed shackles, gasps with surprise.

Even still, it expands further and further out, hordes of silver butterflies slipping into the trees.

He’ll find him.

Hua Cheng squeezes his eyes shut.

He’ll find him.

And if he doesn’t—the spell will run out, first.

Xie Lian looks around, disoriented—trying to discern if this is a dream, or a memory.

The details feel too sharp to be a construction of the subconscious, or some sort of illusion. He can see the individual leaves on the bushes—the intricacies of the carvings on the pillars.

So it’s not a dream, no—

But it’s far too unfamiliar to be a memory, either.

“Dianxia,” the voice repeats, this time closer—and now, Xie Lian realizes—

Whoever it is—they aren’t calling to him.

Just as he realizes that, a child rushes past him, mischievous laughter darting through the air.

But just as the little boy passes through Xie Lian’s view, he realizes—

There’s something vaguely familiar about his features.

The shape of his nose—the shade of his eyes.

He’s barely more than a toddler—all around cheeks and clumsy steps.

“Prince Bolin!” An exasperated servant cries, rounding the corner. “No running inside the place!”

Xie Lian received similar scoldings himself as a child, but—

Prince Bolin?

“Oh,” another voice interrupts, calling out from behind him. “He’s just trying to fly away, isn’t that right little love?”

When Xie Lian turns his head—there’s a woman standing there, with dark hair and violet eyes, holding her arms wide open.

And in an instant, he recognizes the gentle adoration in her eyes.

She’s the boy’s mother.

Prince Bolin beams, rushing into her arms.

“No!” He cries, but he giggles—as though she’s exactly right.

“Liar,” she smiles, blowing kisses against his cheek until he squeals with laughter, trying to squirm away. “Aren’t you going to say yellow to your father?” The Queen looks up towards Xie Lian—and when she does, he face freezes.

“…Darling, what are you wearing?”

Xie Lian looks down at himself, but he’s not wearing anything odd—still just the dress that the Wind Master was wearing before. Maybe a little low cut, but—

She isn’t looking at him.

She’s looking through him.

And when Xie Lian turns around, he sees.

A figure dressed in elegant robes of red and gold—the sort of thing he would expect to see on a king, or an emperor. But on his face—

It’s a mask.

Half smiling, half crying.

A sight that has only ever filled the Crown Prince of Xianle with overwhelming terror.

But not now.

Now, as he watches the man wrench his head from side to side, fighting to tear the mask off of his face, his fingers clawing desperately—

“Darling?” His wife questions again, holding their son tighter in her arms.

—Xie Lian can’t help but feel pity, building in his gut.

“Papa?” The child questions, holding his mother’s dress a little tighter, and as Xie Lian watches the masked figure struggle, a voice pierces through the scene, loud, sharp—

“NO!”

And just as quickly, it all goes dark.

Xie Lian rolls over onto his hands and knees, disoriented—and when he looks up—

He’s back where he started.

In the middle of the woods, on the slope of a mountainside.

Trembling, his lungs burning.

What—?

‘XIE LIAN!’

Hua Cheng has never raised his voice to him before—or called him by his first name.

But now, calling into Xie Lian’s private array—he sounds beyond desperate.

‘San Lang,’ he replies shakily, ‘I’m sorry, I—’

‘Let the Wind Master switch back with you!’

The prince hesitates, looking around him.

‘…I don’t think she can deal with this thing by herself,’ he mutters—somewhat aware of the fact taht Hua Cheng doesn’t care about that—

But Xie Lian does.

And while Xie Lian might be frightened, or hurt—

That’s all it can do to him, and in comparison to the possible consequences to Shi Qingxuan, it seems like a small price to pay.

Hua Cheng seems to know him well enough to understand that he won’t leave her like this.

‘Put some distance between yourself and it, then switch. She can send up a signal for us to find her when you do.’

Before, Xie Lian might have staunchly refused, but—

‘I’ll hang him, too…’

He swallows hard, his hands trembling against the dirt.

‘…Just like I hung Hong’er.’

‘…Okay,’ he replies faintly, rising to his feet. He feels strange—and he can only blame that on being in a body he’s unaccustomed to.

While Shi Qingxuan’s body isn’t weighed down with shackles—it also seems to tire faster than his own—and far more prone to nausea.

The easiest tact seems to be running to the top of the mountain—where her signal could be seen the easiest, and where she would automatically have the high ground on any attacker before they managed to reach her again.

Once he breaks through the tree line, he calls out—

‘Lady Wind Master?’

‘Oh, your highness!’ Shi Qingxuan replies immediately, audibly relieved. ‘We were so worried!’

‘Do you think you can switch back? If you send a signal up, we’ll come to you immediately.’

‘Yes, yes!’ She agrees quickly.

After all—she might have been frightened before, but with the cursed shackles, it’s difficult to stay in Xie Lian’s body for that long. And if they wait any longer, Hua Cheng might just end up punching Ming Yi through the earth’s core at this point…

‘Okay—prepare yourself!’

Xie Lian is hit by that weightless feeling once more, floating up, up, up—only to crash back down with a heavy weight, slamming back to earth, with the familiar sounds of Fu Gu bustling around him.

He never thought a day would come when he would open his eyes and feel comforted to see darkness—but now, when he sees the sea of crimson—

Xie Lian makes a choked sound of relief.

“San Lang—!”

His words are broken off when he finds himself enveloped in a crushing embrace.

Hua Cheng’s arms crush the prince against his chest briefly, but fiercely—his cheek pressed against Xie Lian’s hair.

He doesn’t say it out loud—but the feeling behind it is loud and clear.

‘Don’t ever do that again.’

Xie Lian squeezes his eyes shut, pressing his face into the front of Hua Cheng’s robes briefly, trying to get those words out of his head:

‘I’ll hang him, too.’

“…I’m sorry,” Xie Lian mutters. “I thought I could handle it, I’m—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Hua Cheng shakes his head.

“You’re back now.”

Xie Lian takes a long, shaky breath—and he realizes his shoulders are still trembling.

“…Something strange happened,” he whispers, working to steady himself. “…I saw—” He pauses. “Where’s the Earth Master?”

“Who cares?” Hua Cheng’s reply is flat.

The earth master is currently dragging himself—one limb at a time—from a deep crater in the ground, coughing up dust as he goes—and Xie Lian doesn’t have time to ask more.

‘Lady Wind Master,’ He calls into the communication array, lifting his head from Hua Cheng’s chest.

‘Are you alright? Can you send us a signal?’

After a moment, Shi Qingxuan replies—

‘...I don’t think that will be necessary, your highness—and did something bite my hand while you were in my body?!’

Xie Lian winces sheepishly before pushing past that, ‘What do you mean?’

‘I know where I am, I think…’ Shi Qingxuan’s voice is slightly faint, surprised.

‘Actually—this is the place where I ascended.’

Xie Lian perks up, his eyes wide.

‘Really?’

‘Yes—it’s the mountain where my brother and I trained in cultivation—the Terrace of Cascading Wine.’

And Xie Lian is more than a little ashamed to admit—he’s relieved to hear it.

For a moment, in the pits of his terror—he really had believed that it was the White Clothed Calamity.

But luring Shi Qingxuan to a place personal to her? That means it has nothing to do with Xie Lian

Which leaves only one option left.

“San Lang,” Xie Lian goes to stand, and Hua Cheng lets him go—however reluctantly. “Is there a venerable of empty words that would be powerful enough to access the memories of a heavenly official?”

The Ghost King hesitates.

Within the ghost realm, the supremes sit atop the heap. A very distant third to them in terms of power is Ren Song.

Venerables aren’t quite the same.

“There’s one,” Hua Cheng agrees. “That spirit was far older than me.”

Xie Lian’s eyebrows raise.

“A venerable could live that long?”

“…” Hua Cheng is quiet, seeming to choose every single word meticulously before he speaks. “Before the Kiln began producing Ghost Kings, there were many failed experiments performed by it’s forge master.”

It’s…forge master?

“The original venerable of empty words was one of them—though it was so powerful, we call it the Reverend of Empty Words.”

Which makes Shi Qingxuan’s situation far more dangerous than Xie Lian thought—but there’s something else bothering him.

“…This forge master of the Kiln—was it Zhao Beitong?”

Hua Cheng and Ming Yi go completely still, both of them whipping around to look at the prince.

“…What?” The calamity questions flatly. “Where did you hear that name, dianxia?”

“…After the mission in Banyue, one of her weapons was recovered by General Pei,” Xie Lian explains. “Jun Wu told us that she was the first calamity, wife of Bai Wuxiang—and that she created the weapons that destroyed the last Heavenly Dynasty.”

Ming Yi almost opens his mouth to correct him—then seems to remember that the ‘earth master’ would have no way of knowing that.

Hua Cheng, however, replies easily.

“Most of that is true—but she was no Calamity.” He corrects him quietly. “She was a martial goddess.”

Xie Lian brightens, surprised—after all, he’s never heard of a martial goddess before—

But it also reveals a confusing crack within the story he’s been told.

Why would a goddess destroy the heavens?

And if all of that is true—

Was she the woman Xie Lian saw in his vision?

Xie Lian supposes it’s possible—if the Reverend of Empty Words was her creation—

It might possess some of it’s creator’s memories, and that was what he saw.

Finally, Ming Yi speaks up.

“The travel array isn’t working. That thing must have cut off the connection points.”

Xie Lian frowns, his stomach tightening with building worry.

‘…Lady Wind Master? Is there a place where you could hide out until we get there?’

‘Sure—the tavern where I used to drink is still here, it’s just empty now…’

‘That’s good,’ the prince replies quickly.

‘Seal yourself inside, and don’t open the door for anyone other than us.’

‘Or Ren Song,’ Hua Cheng interrupts. ‘It’s possible he might reach your location before we do.’

‘Either way,’ Xie Lian concludes, ‘Someone will be there soon. Just don’t open the doors for anyone else.’

‘I can do that much, your highness,’ He can practically hear Shi Qingxuan rolling her eyes. ‘I’m not a child. I don’t need you to explain that I shouldn’t open the door for strangers.’

“But you’ll tell them your name, your birthday, and everything else…” Ming Yi grumbles.

Since he’s only said that out loud and not into the array, Xie Lian opts to ignore it, telling Shi Qingxuan—

‘Good, we’ll be there soon. Hold on and wait for us as best as you can, alright?’

Then, he turns to Ming Yi.

“How long will it take for us to reach him, you think?”

The earth master has already set off down the street, his face turned away from them.

“On foot? An hour.”

As they set off, Xie Lian looks to Hua Cheng. “Could I have—?”

Before he can even finish asking, Hong’er is being placed back in his palm—with the utmost care.

“…” Xie Lian closes his fingers around the ring tightly, holding it close to his chest for a moment.

Even in someone else’s body, being free from his shackles for the first time in so long—the most alien part of all of it was the absence of the chain around his neck.

“Thank you, San Lang,” he whispers, slipping the necklace back on, tucking the ring inside his robes.

Hua Cheng watches the gesture, his expression carefully controlled.

“You said it was important to you.”

So, of course he took good care of it.

Xie Lian smiles faintly.

He’s aware that Hua Cheng has no way of knowing just how meaningful the gesture is—

But it means the world to Xie Lian.

“It’s the last thing I have left of someone precious to me,” he explains quietly.

Hua Cheng doesn’t reply—he just reaches for his hand, holding on tight.

The walk to the Terrace of Cascading Wine is quick, with little interruption from the task at hand. Ming Yi leads the way, his steps quick, posture sharp—and Hua Cheng and Xie Lian follow close behind, the former giving his god a brief history of their destination.

When Shi Wudu was sixteen, he came to study on this very mountain under a powerful master—and after his ascension, during Shi Qingxuan’s time in the middle court, the Wind Master would often come to this place to continue his training.

And, the Wind Master being the sort of person that he was—each day of training was capped off with stopping by the local tavern before returning to the Heavenly Realm, drinking and laughing with friends to his heart’s content.

Until one day, when a local man became so rowdy with a group of young women—the Water Master’s deputy felt the need to intervene.

He bewitched his cup of wine—and when he spilled it all over the man’s head, he was knocked out cold.

A year later, he would ascend from the very same place—coincidentally, while drinking.

Xie Lian can’t help but find something about the tale rather odd.

After all—ascension is a matter of fate and chance.

(Xie Lian himself ascended while sleeping.)

But Shi Qingxuan’s path…

For most people who ascend, they take one of three directions:

Martial prowess.

Scholarly might.

Acts of personal sacrifice.

For the Wind Master—while Xie LIan thinks she’s a kind hearted and decent person—her path doesn’t match any of those.

Outliers exist…and yet.

There’s something about Shi Qingxuan’s story—the whole of it—that doesn’t seem to make sense. Colliding and incongruent factors that Xie Lian can sense, but not quite name.

And finally, when they grow close, and Xie Lian feels the familiar slope of the mountain path beneath his feet—a thought strikes him.

“…Shi Qingxuan hasn’t asked us if we were getting close yet,” he mutters, holding Hua Cheng’s sleeve a little tighter.

For someone as anxious and impatient as the Wind Master at this moment—that’s somewhat out of character.

Hua Cheng hums in acknowledgment, his eyes fixed on the path ahead.

“She might be too frightened to speak.’

That’s not entirely out of the range of possibility…but still.

The closer they grow to their destination, the more Xie Lian feels a sinking pit in his stomach. Maybe lingering terror from his experiences in Shi Qingxuan’s body—

But it feels like more than that.

“…Have you heard from Ren Song?” He questions softly. “Do you think he would have arrived before us?”

Hua Cheng falls silent, but Xie Lian can sense it, pouring off of him—

Concern.

“It’s been quiet.”

That’s the other thing that’s been bothering him—

Hua Cheng is right.

It is quiet.

From the river at the foot of the mountain, to the stillness of the air.

There are no sounds of the forest.

No rustling of leaves or chattering of animals. Even the insects wandering beneath the grass seem to have fallen silent.

And then, when they begin to pass the tree line—it comes into view.

A familiar aura—sharp and green, with a burning core—and he’s almost relieved by the sight.

Until Xie Lian notices something that makes his blood run cold.

Before, the aura from Ren Song’s spiritual power couldn’t be compared to Hua Cheng’s—but it was still brighter than that of most other ghosts. But now…

It’s noticeably dim.

Hua Cheng is greeted by an even more terrifying sight.

A small figure, against a crumbling stone wall marking the edge of the pavilion. Slumped over, his hair blowing limply in the breeze.

Ming Yi stiffens in turn beside him—so startled, his disguise briefly flickers—

But there’s no comparison between that, and the darkness that passes over Hua Cheng’s face.

Unlike the other two, Xie Lian isn’t frozen in place with shock, instead rushing the rest of the way up the hill, kneeling by Shuo’s side.

“San Lang—is he alright?!”

The calamity kneels down in front of him, placing his hands on Shuo’s shoulders as he looks him over—and with every passing moment, his expression becomes more and more contorted with rage.

“Look at me,” he mutters, giving Shuo’s shoulders a harsh shake. “Now!”

“San Lang,” Xie Lian interrupts, concerned—but before he can say more, the ghost’s eyelids start to twitch, his movements weak, but present.

“H…Hua Chengzhu?” He rasps, his words slightly slurred—and when he opens his eyes, the pupils are blown, nearly blocking out his entire irises with darkness.

“I’m here as well,” Xie Lian adds, feeling around for Shuo’s hand, squeezing it gently. “What happened to you?”

The demon struggles to reply, wincing, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth—

But when Hua Cheng finishes examining him, he—

He knows exactly what happened, and when he explains his voice is so cold, so sharp with anger—it actually startles Xie Lian to hear it.

“That thing—it fed off of him.”

Xie Lian stops, looking over at the Ghost King with wide, unseeing eyes.

“…His fear, you mean?”

Hua Cheng’s expression is grim, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

Eyeing the wounds in the side of Shuo’s neck—

In the shape of a set of fangs.

“More directly than that, your highness.”

For once—Hua Cheng doesn’t have to explain, and Xie Lian—

He feels his stomach plunge with remorse.

Xie Lian doesn’t have to ask how the creature did that—or why.

After all—he’s done it before.

Centuries ago, standing in the Royal Palace of Yong’an for the first time, staring down the man that Xie Lian had wanted to blame for everything that had ever gone wrong in his life, even if the world is never so simple.

And in that moment, desperate for spiritual power—he had taken it from Wu Ming.

Not in the way he does now, relying on the generosity of those around him—Xie Lian simply took it.

He reached out and grabbing the ghost by the throat, digging his nails in until he felt power rushing through his veins once more.

Until Xie Lian felt strong again.

Until he felt /safe/ again.

It’s one of the moments in his life he’s always been deeply ashamed of—but never more so than now, listening to Shuo’s shallow, unsteady breaths.

“…Will he be alright?” The prince whispers.

Hua Cheng doesn’t reply immediately, pressing his fingertips to Shuo’s temples, rapidly feeding some of his own power into the ghost’s body to tide him over in the short run.

His reserves weren’t completely depleted.

There’s no sign of his form dissolving—and he wasn’t reduced to a ghost fire.

But still—the damage wasn’t insignificant. The ‘Reverend’ or whatever attacked him—it clearly meant to leave Ren Song entirely subdued, unable to complete his task.

“…He’ll be alright,” Hua Cheng concludes, allowing Xie Lian to let out a low sigh of relief, before adding—

“But he needs to be taken to Ghost City for treatment.”

His shoulders are tense, clearly torn as to what to do—but Xie Lian doesn’t hesitate.

“Then you’ll have to take him back,” the prince concludes, his tone matter of fact.

Hua Cheng doesn’t argue that point—but there’s one sticking point for him:

“Come with me, then.”

The prince hesitates, turning his head back in the direction of the Terrace of Cascading Wine.

In any other circumstance, he would. Even if Xie Lian hadn’t grown fond of Shuo in the last few weeks—Hua Cheng is clearly upset about him being hurt, and the prince wouldn’t want him to have to take him back to Ghost City alone, but…

“…I have to find Shi Qingxuan and return her to the heavens first,” he murmurs, biting his lip. “As soon as I do, I’ll join you there to make sure he’s alright.”

“Your highness,” Hua Cheng mutters, seeming utterly torn, “you can’t expect me to leave you alone after that.”

“But I’m not alone,” Xie Lian points out with a wry smile, still squeezing Shuo’s hand tightly, pushing the boy’s hair behind his ear. “Ming Yi is here with me, we’ll stick together.”

Oh, if only he could see the look that Hua Cheng gives the ‘earth master’ in response.

Within their communication array, it’s the same thing, over and over again.

It wasn’t me.

It wasn’t me.

It wasn’t me.

And why should Hua Cheng care, when the result is the same?

“…I’ll return as soon as he’s settled,” the ghost king mutters under his breath, while saying another within He Xuan’s communication array—

‘At this point, it doesn’t matter if it was you.’

‘I—’

‘You started this.’

So bent on revenge, that he can stomach the idea of being a pawn in a game someone else is clearly playing—too focused on his goal to even find out who is moving him across the board.

And now, lifting Shuo’s form into his arms—

Ming Yi can’t even look at the boy.

“…I’ll look on the north side,” the earth master starts, “you can take the south—”

“You’ll look together,” Hua Cheng cuts him off coldly, holding Shuo with one arm, lifting a set of dice from the pockets of his robes.

Normally, Xie Lian would be offended by the implication that he couldn’t go looking by himself.

But given what just happened…

He can’t really blame Hua Cheng for wanting Xie Lian to avoid being separated from the others again.

Once the ghost king disappears through his newly constructed portal—one that seems to be working now that the reverend has cornered it’s prey—

Xie Lian and Ming Yi begin their search.

Initially, they have one goal: finding the tavern that Shi Qingxuan had agreed to hide within.

But when they do…

Ming Yi’s face pales when he catches sight of the structure—and the door sitting wide open, swinging gently in the breeze.

Xie Lian has never heard him sound quite so desperate, until he calls—

“Shi Qingxuan!”

He rushes towards the door, finding the inside of the building empty and abandoned—with no sign that Shi Qingxuan had ever been there to begin with.

And, of course—their calls into the communication array go unheard…or ignored.

“…I don’t think it could have forced it’s way in here,” Xie Lian mutters, pressing his hand along the frame of the door.

There’s no damage to the lock or the wood—and no sign of forced entry.

Ming Yi falls silent for a moment, his palms pressed flat against the wall as he leans his forehead against it, breathing in through his nose, deep and slow, his shoulders stiff—but they refuse to tremble.

It—

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

“Then why would she have answered the door?!” He growls, speaking to Xie Lian far more roughly than he had dared to in Hua Cheng’s presence—but now he does not bother. “She was TERRIFIED, she wouldn’t have answered to anyone else!”

“No,” Xie Lian agrees, “I don’t think it was a stranger.”

The earth master rounds on him, infuriated, almost crying out those words again—

It wasn’t me.

It wasn’t me.

It wasn’t me.

But the crown prince has no reason to suspect that it was—has no idea what is truly going on.

Hua Cheng and He Xuan—

They keep one another’s secrets well, in spite of any disagreements they may have over the other’s methods.

And oh, how Hua Cheng disagrees with him. How he judges him.

It’s always so easy to pass judgement on a live you haven’t lived.

“…What makes you say that?” He questions slowly, his voice low, almost dragged down with emotions, turning flat and cold.

“She was still wearing earplugs—she wouldn’t have been able to hear anyone calling at the door,” Xie Lian explains, his expression grim. “But she was here.”

Xie Lian can still smell her perfume, even if the remnants are faint.

“…Someone spoke into her private array, then?” Ming Yi mutters, leaning against the wall, pinning his hands against his temples. “Why does she share that password with anyone who fucking asks?!”

Xie Lian doesn’t comment on that—because even he agrees that, up until this incident began unfolding, the Wind Master was far too trusting.

“All we can do now is keep looking,” Xie Lian mutters, turning around. “She can’t be far.”

The Reverend of Empty Words had to subdue Shuo in the time before they arrived, and from what Xie Lian was able to gather after fighting it—

The creature is strong, frighteningly so. But it would not have been able to injure a powerful demon like Ren Song in a mere instant.

It hasn’t had time to go far.

Ming Yi seems to make the same conjecture, finally able to calm down enough to step away from the wall, hurrying back out the door.

“Stay close to me,” he mutters, reaching back to grab Xie Lian by the wrist.

“I’m not dealing with Crimson Rain Sought Flower trying to skin me alive because you tripped over a rock.”

“San Lang wouldn’t do that,” the prince replies solemnly, more than aware of the fact that he’s lying through his teeth.

Ming Yi rolls his eyes—but he makes no comment.

The Terrace of Cascading Wine is more of a complex now than it used to be—more popular during the summer months, going unused during the latter weeks of fall and the season of winter.

There are multiple courtyards and buildings to check—and in each and every one of them, they find no sign of Shi Qingxuan.

The Earth Master grows silent, but Xie Lian can feel tension building up in the way that his hand grasps the prince’s wrist, laying heavy in the air.

“I think it would make the Wind Master happy, if she knew that you were worried,” Xie Lian comments quietly, almost hoping for Ming Yi to snap, retorting something about not being nothing of the sort—

But he says nothing.

“…Hold on,” the prince mutters, digging his heels in and pulling them both to a stop. “I have an idea.”

“If it’s another stupid spell, I don’t have spiritual power to spare like Hua Cheng—”

“No,” Xie Lian assures him, shaking his head. He reaches down to his side—unsheathing fangxin. “This is different.”

It’s only just occurred to him, that’s all.

Ming Yi stiffens as he watches the crown prince bring the sharp edge of the blade to the inside of his wrist.

“…What are you doing?”

“She still has Rouye,” Xie Lian’s expression doesn’t change, nor does his breathing even halt as he slices into his own flesh, blood pouring down.

He stares down blankly, unable to see it running down his arm, dripping down and landing on the earth below

Xie Lian has lost many things over the course of his life, loved ones he thought he couldn’t bear losing.

But the one thing that remains to him—as meaningless as it feels—still holds some value.

His line is ancient—and within his veins runs the blood of kings.

The same blood that birthed Rouye, forming it’s first baptism.

And if the demon is within reach, and Xie Lian’s blood has been spilt—

It will come.

Ming Yi is silent, watching Xie Lian’s blood pool on the ground beneath his boots, staining the grass.

When he finally does speak, he sighs.

“…If you had to use blood, you should have used mine,” he mutters.

Xie Lian shrugs, waiting calmly.

“It wouldn’t work with yours.”

And before the earth master can point out that they have no way of knowing if this /will/ work—

There’s a flash of white at the top of the hill before them, leading from the great tower looming over the pavilion.

Rouye.

Ming Yi starts dragging them forward before the demon even reaches them—and when it does, it wraps itself tightly around Xie Lian’s wrist, slithering around excitedly as it drinks in the freshly spilt blood, hurrying to consume all that it can before the wound seals itself up.

Some might think of it as a slightly grim habit for one’s own spiritual device to have, but Xie Lian has never minded. After all, it actually helps the blood clot faster, and—

After all, it deserves a good meal every once and a while. It works rather hard in the prince’s service

When they reach the tower, Ming Yi is prepared to climb to the very top of it, but—

That won’t be necessary.

The moment Ming Yi sees her, the noise that rips out of his throat—

It’s one that Xie Lian desperately wishes he wasn’t familiar with.

He let’s go of the prince’s arm, and for a brief moment abandons any decorum, leaping the rest of the way up the hill in one step, falling to his knees by the Wind Master’s side.

She’s been left sprawled on the tower entrance, eyes closed, her normally sun kissed skin drained of any color.

And above her, scrawled into stone in what looks so much like blood, are the all too familiar words, the characters still dripping:

WRETCHED BEGINNING, WRETCHED END.

Xie Lian hurries after him, but—

This time, he does trip over something on the ground, not quite the same in shape as a rock, but easy enough for the toe of his boot to get caught up in.

He catches himself with one palm, Rouye holding him back with his other, and when he reaches down to see what tripped him…

He finds the Wind Master’s fan, a powerful spiritual device…split in half, the character for ‘Feng’ cut straight in two.

Xie Lian holds onto it for a moment, his eyes wide with shock.

After all, he knew the creature was strong—that fact was clear from the very beginning. And he knew it was clever—clever enough to manipulate and terrorize.

But what short of a calamity would be powerful enough to snap one of Jun Wu’s weapons in half? Who would dare?

In his distraction, he quite isn’t sure if he understands the words that leave Ming Yi’s mouth in a pained moan, but he could almost swear—

It sounds like ‘Not again.’

“Wake up,” the earth master pulls her into his arms, giving her a gentle shake. “Don’t…” his voice cracks with pain, sinking down, down, down, only to rise again with terrified anger as he shakes her again, this time harder. “Don’t be a fucking crybaby, WAKE UP!”

Xie Lian bites his lip, taking a long, deep breath, and accepting the truth of this situation.

This matter has grown beyond what they can handle.

He lifts his fingers up to his temple, entering the proper password before calling out—

‘Ling Wen?’

There’s a pause, but, as always, the civil goddess responds swiftly.

‘Your highness?’

‘I need to speak to the Water Master as soon as possible,’ Xie Lian explains, brushing himself off as he rises to his feet. ‘He needs to descend.’

‘…He’s with me now,’ Ling Wen replies calmly, her tone marked with confusion. ‘But he rarely descends to the Mortal Realm these days, particularly with the days ahead being so difficult. But, I can certainly pass along a message to him.’

‘Something has happened to the Wind Master,’ Xie Lian’s reply is swift and concise, wasting as little time as possible. ‘I don’t know if she’s going to be alright, and he needs to come to the Terrace of Cascading Wine immediately.’

Then, there is absolutely no response.

Ming Yi crushes Shi Qingxuan against his chest with one arm, and with his other, he quickly searches her body for any injury, finding none.

He hadn’t—

For the briefest moment, their only witness being a blind man, he rests his forehead against hers, his eyelids squeezed shut.

It—

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

Telling her the truth—even if that truth was horrible—

It was the only way he could think of to protect her from what’s coming.

To show her what the Heavenly Court actually was, and more importantly…

What her brother actually is.

What the Water Master Shi Wudu has always been.

The sort of man who picks and chooses who lives and who dies upon his own convenience.

Who can live with the rape and murder of innocents, and use their graves as the foundation beneath his own success.

To show her that he’s a—

/BOOM!/

/BOOM!/

/BOOM!/

The sky flashes with each clap of thunder, heavenly flight flashing down upon the mountain each time, but the first is the brightest. So intense, Xie Lian has to throw his arms over his eyes to shield them, his shackle stabbing painfully in protest.

And as soon as the dust settles, he hears a cry—

“QINGXUAN!”

The Water Master moves so quickly, it’s impossible to discern individual steps, his robes streaming around him as he rushes to his sister, shoving Ming Yi aside.

The Earth Master steps back, his hands lifted up on either side of his head, but his eyes are narrowed, watching the Shi siblings with an expression so venomous, Xie Lian can almost feel it, even if he can’t see it.

Behind him, hurrying to his side are Pei Ming and Ling Wen—neither of whom have ever been close allies to the Wind Master, but seeing her brother in such a state has them both ashen and pale.

The Water Master leans down, pressing his ear against her chest—

And when he finds silence, he lets out something more than a cry or a scream.

It’s a howl.

The sort of scream that Xie Lian has only heard from grieving parents, holding their children in their arms.

The sort of sound that reaches inside of your chest and hollows you out.

Shi Wudu can’t breathe, not in the moments since he heard that his sister wasn’t.

Can’t think. Can’t feel.

There’s only pain and terror, flashing between one and the other.

That horrible, building denial—telling himself that this can’t be right.

That he saw his sister at breakfast yesterday, and that she was fine. Her smiling, happy, self. Flicking strawberries at him with her chopsticks whenever he had the nerve to stop paying attention mid-conversation.

And the utter, merciless agony that can only come from silence.

Ling Wen stands at a distance, visibly at a loss for words, one hand clutched over her chest, her expression gaunt.

The only one who dares to step closer is Pei Ming, his own expression stricken as he kneels behind the Water Master, but where he tries to touch his shoulder—

Shi Wudu cringes away, trembling, whipping his head around in either direction to stare at Xie Lian and Ming Yi, his eyes bloodshot, brimming with tears.

“WHO DID THIS?!”

Xie Lian lowers his chin, and Ming Yi’s expression remains dark, closed off.

Shi Wudu looks up— and now, he finally sees the words written above the tower door—

In an instant, his face drains of all color, clutching his sister’s body closer as he scrambles away from the steps, running straight into Pei’s chest, his breaths quickening.

“…WHO THE FUCK WROTE THAT?!” He chokes, readying himself to wring the truth out of the other two if he has to—anything, just to avoid facing the truth of his sister’s limp form in his arms, but—

But then, there’s a rattling breath that arrests every other thought.

He freezes, turning his attention to Shi Qingxuan’s face—watching as her eyelids twitch, and finally—she begins to cough.

Xie Lian exhales a shaky breath, just as Shi Wudu lets out a trembling sob of relief.

“Qingxuan,” he croaks, rocking back and forth.

“Can you hear me?!” He reaches down, pushing her hair from her face—and now that the Water Master can see that his sister is alive, he can actually allow himself to /feel/ that overwhelming sorrow, tears slipping down his cheeks.

“…ge…?” Shi Qingxuan rasps, eyes still closed.

“I’m here,” Shi Wudu replies quickly, his voice breaking, “Gege’s right here…”

Her eyes begin to flutter, just as her brother looks up, readying himself to call for medical assistance before they can—

/CRACK!/

The sound of the slap is so sudden, so sharp—everyone goes silent.

The Water Master is frozen, a red mark growing on his cheek, his eyes wide, his tears still dripping from his chin.

Xie Lian struggles to grasp what’s happened, until he hears Shi Qingxuan choke out—

“Don’t fucking TOUCH me!”

She shoves at her brother’s chest violently.

Shi Wudu still doesn’t move—too shocked to react, but with every word that comes out of his sister’s mouth—

“I don’t EVER want to see you EVER AGAIN!”

That surprise rapidly turns to hurt, building and cresting in his eyes, and—

Pei shoves her hand away, his tone livid.

“What the FUCK has gotten into you?!” He snarls, eyes flashing. “Who the hell talks to their own blood like that?!”

Shi Wudu’s head is still whipped to the side from the slap, his hair slipping over his shoulders to hide his expression.

“…Pei—don’t,” he mutters faintly.

“No,” the general shakes his head, his voice trembling with anger, “I’ve looked past too much already—who do you think you ARE, speaking to your brother like that?! All while he’s SHEDDING TEARS OF WORRY OVER YOUR UNGRATEFUL—!”

Regrets are like hail stones.

Forming so harmlessly, so many careless choices made out of emotions like fear, anger, or hurt.

And very rarely does one ever think a cold breeze or a cloud overhead will lead to a storm.

But once they form, they begin to fall.

And it’s the falling that gives them power.

Gravity pulls them further and faster, building up speed and force—to the point where a ball of ice no bigger than a man’s hand could kill you.

Shi Qingxuan has been blessed in her life. Cherished and protected from the harshness of storms.

She never learned of the storms she could create on her own. The pain she could cause.

What it would be like to feel so sorry, that it turns into a recurring ache in your gut, flaring each time you remember what it felt like to be so /cruel./

But the words that fall from her lips now will plunge down to the earth with such force, causing such pain—

That she will regret them for the rest of her life.

“I WISH HE WASN’T MY BROTHER!” She screams so loud, her voice cracks.

Shi Wudu still doesn’t move.

His expression is hidden—and when she thrashes to get away from him, his arms are still locked around her.

“Let GO OF ME!” She screams, shoving at his chest again. “Don’t YOU HEAR ME?! I—”

“Shi Qingxuan,” Xie Lian starts, recognizing the terrified, hurt tone in her voice.

He felt like that once before himself—and the way he lashed out at his loved ones, the things he did that he couldn’t take back—

They’ve haunted him ever since.

“—I HATE YOU!”

Xie Lian balks, absolutely stunned to hear the Wind Master to speak that way.

But before he can react—the Water Master seems to snap out of whatever daze he was in, snatching his sister by the wrist, holding her in an iron grip.

“That’s enough.” He speaks calmly, his voice controlled through sheer force of will.

“I don’t know what has gone on with you—but we’ll deal with this once you’ve received medical care.”

He stands with the Wind Master in his arms—even as she struggles, fighting to get away from him.

“PUT—PUT ME DOWN! MING-XIONG, YOUR HIGHNESS—HELP ME—!”

The moment Xie Lian takes a step forward, the Water Master’s eyes flash in his direction.

“Your highness,” he murmurs, his voice shockingly calm, given everything his sister just said— “Do not interfere.”

Shi Qingxuan tries her best to struggle—but whatever happened has left her body severely weakened.

She tries to cry out one more time, choking out the syllables,

“MING-XIONG—!”

But before she can say any more, her eyes roll back into her head, and she goes limp.

Ming Yi rushes forward, but before he gets even remotely close—

A sword flies through the air, stopping to hover before his throat, the sharpened tip glinting in the sun.

Shi Wudu hasn’t lifted a finger—and yet, the scabbard hanging by his side is empty.

His fan still sits in his belt, untouched.

Clearly, he doesn’t seem to deem a possible battle with Ming Yi worthy of using such a device.

And the words he spares for the earth master are so frigid, even Xie Lian shivers, taking a step back.

“Know your place, Earth Master Ming Yi.” He holds Shi Qingxuan even closer, turning to return to the Heavens. “This is a family matter.”

Xie Lian doesn’t think he’s wrong—and as bizarrely as the Wind and Water Masters may be behaving at the moment, Shi Wudu is still her brother.

One who clearly loves her quite deeply, no less.

Who better to look after her now, than him?

Ming Yi is not quite so easily convinced.

“She doesn’t seem to want to be considered your family,” he glares, taking another step. “And she doesn’t want to go anywhere with you!”

The Water Master doesn’t turn back, and the sword doesn’t move—the tip of the blade digging into the base of Ming Yi’s throat from where he’s stepped forward, pricking him until blood begins to drip down.

“…Ming Yi, if you think your input is relevant, you have severely miscalculated your position.” The Water Master turns his head only slightly, enough so to meet Ming Yi’s gaze through the corner of his eye. “Stand down.”

The Earth Master glances around. Xie Lian has stepped aside, but seems to be listening to the situation rather intently, his brow furrowed.

Ling Wen stands at the furthest distance with her fingertips pressed to her temple—clearly in communication with other heavenly officials.

But the greatest and most obvious obstacle in this situation comes from General Pei, standing directly beside the water master, his hand noticeably resting upon the pommel of his sword where it rests at his side.

“…You certainly are confident when it’s three on one,” The Earth Master comments flatly, his rage barely hidden beneath a veneer of sarcasm. “So impressive—it’s easy to see why the emperor is so fond of you.”

And where their gazes clash, Shi Wudu’s eyes spark with anger.

“Assuming I need help to protect my family is a mistake you won’t survive making,” Shi Wudu warns him coldly. “And if you think I’m leaving my unconscious little sister with a man who has been openly interested in her, then maybe we should have the medics look at you as well.”

The Earth Master falls silent—but not out of shame, no.

Xie Lian can sense many emotions from the god—but none of them are shame.

But, to his surprise—

Ming Yi makes absolutely no denial of what the Water Master accuses him of.

“…Good luck with your calamity, Lord Water Master.” He inflects his statement with a sarcastic bow, rising an turning on his heel to walk away.

“I’m sure that it will be a sight that none in the heavens will ever forget.”

Xie Lian falls silent, listening as the other officials go their separate ways, finding something odd about Ming Yi’s statement.

Not the sarcasm—he’s come to expect that from Ming Yi.

No, what surprises him is that the earth master spoke so much at all.

Still—once he’s gone, and the other three gods have ascended back to the Heavens once more—

Xie Lian’s task here is finished, and as worried as he is about Shi Qingxuan—there’s another, far more pressing matter to attend to now that her safety has been secured.

Slowly, carefully, he makes his way down the mountain—setting himself on the path towards Ghost City.

It’s an awfully long way from here, and Xie Lian doesn’t have the spiritual power necessary to create a travel array—which means he’s left traveling on foot.

Normally, such a journey would take him around two days or so, but given how serious Shuo’s injuries were…

Xie Lian is reluctant to take so long in returning to them.

In which case—the most obvious option, of course, would be to call Hua Cheng in his private communication array in order to ask the Ghost King to come and fetch him.

And that—that would require saying the password.

Not once. Not twice.

But /three/ times.

And Xie Lian—he can’t bring himself to do that.

But—

That isn’t his only option.

After a moment of fishing around in his pockets—Xie Lian lifts out a set of dice, remembering Hua Cheng’s words from not so long ago—

‘It doesn’t matter what you roll—I’ll always appear.’

It seems like a bit of a silly thing to do, after all—almost like a child waiting outside of a hall after martial arts practice, calling his mother to come and fetch him home.

But still, Xie Lian had felt horrible about not accompanying them back before—

And waiting two days to see if Shuo is alright seems like too much to bear.

But just as Xie Lian prepares himself to roll…

He hears something.

This distant, rhythmic sound, a repetitive /thud/, /thud/, /thud/, followed by…

Chanting.

Gravelly voices, repeating the words in unison:

“YI YU XI, YI YU XI!”

“YI YU XI, YI YU XI!”

And in all honesty, if any other person had witnessed the sight that appears before him, they would have likely begun to scream and run for the hills.

But Xie Lian can’t ‘see’ any sight, and even if he could—he’s become a bit too accustomed to the presence of Ghosts to feel startled when he sees the small pockets of resentful energy descending towards him.

Six ghosts, each bearing a structure shrouded in shadow and mist until it grows closer—when anyone standing nearby would have been able to see it’s true form:

A step litter.

Extravagant, with golden bars and a crimson silk canopy fluttering slightly in the breeze.

Xie Lian, somewhat unaware of what’s going on, simply steps back from the road in order to allow the ghosts to pass—but they do no such thing.

Instead, they come to a halt directly in front of him.

Xie Lian is able to discern from the sound of their movements now that this must be some sort of litter—and he finds himself wondering if he’s come across some well off female ghost, off to meet some lover on a date, but…

One of the bearers turns it’s head towards him, the vertebrae in it’s neck crackling as it does so. Each of the ghosts are little more than bone, their skeletons gleaming gold under the demonic light from the step litter.

“Pardon, sir,” one of the skeletons speaks, it’s jaw bones creaking with each syllable. “We were sent by the Ghost King Hua Chengzhu to retrieve the Crown Prince of Xianle. Would that be you?”

Oh.

/Oh./

Xie Lian lifts his hand from fangxin, suddenly realizing that he had reached for the weapon in the first place.

“I—yes, that’s me,” he agrees faintly—and as soon as he confirms his identity, one of the golden skeletons scrambles forward to pull aside the canopy.

He offers one bony hand to help the prince up the steps.

“Right this way, sir—right this way!”

Xie Lian hesitates at first.

In his younger years, it was common for his parents to attempt to insist that he travel from place to place on the royal litter—but he often refused.

Back then, it was simply because he preferred to walk—and now, it almost seems inappropriate for someone like him to be carried around in such a grand litter. After all, who does he think he is?

“…There’s really no need,” he mumbles, but the skeleton bearer to wiggle its hand insistently.

“Our lord’s orders I’m afraid, we insist!”

…But if Hua Cheng really did order those creatures to come all this way…

Xie Lian sighs, allowing himself to be assisted up the steps.

It really can’t be helped.

Once inside, he finds a chair that is really far too wide for just one person, though Xie Lian wouldn’t go so far as to call it a divan or sofa.

In any case—it’s more than comfortable enough for him as he takes a seat, pulling his legs up underneath him as he leans his head against the cushions.

And once the prince is elated and comfortable, the litter takes off once more—moving far faster than it did before.

As a matter of fact—Xie Lian would dare say that it could easily out pace a man on horseback. But somehow, the ride remains smooth—calm enough for him to relax, as his mind begins to wander.

There’s something strange going on between the Masters of Wind and Water.

Not just Shi Qingxuan’s words when she awoke in the Terrace of Cascading Wine—but they were completely out of character.

Even to Pei, whom she openly dislikes, Xie Lian has never heard the Wind Master be so harsh, so—

So openly cruel.

And for that reason alone, Xie Lian would believe that she had been bewitched by the Reverend when it attacked her. Such a move would make sense, given how turning Shi Qingxuan against her only family would add to her misery, but…

If that were the case, he would have expected Shi Wudu to seem more shocked.

He was hurt, clearly—but he didn’t ask questions, or express the sort of confusion that Xie Lian would expect from a brother whose sister suddenly turned against him in a fury.

Instead, he simply silenced Shi Qingxuan and took her away—

Almost as though he didn’t want to give her the chance to say anything more, implying…that he’s siding something.

And Xie Lian…he might believe that.

Because while Shi Qingxuan has been acting strangely ever since she came to ask him for help—her fright was a clear explanation for that, and Xie Lian doesn’t think that she’s been dishonest with him at any point so far.

I

It’s Shi Wudu who has been behaving oddly—and for quite some time now.

That might be a presumptuous conclusion to come to—after all, Xie Lian only met the Water Master rather recently, but…

His actions have contradicted everything Xie Lian had assumed about him before—from not only his reputation, but also his position.

The Water Tyrant. Known for being selfish, prideful, and distant from the Mortal Realm.

Who also just so happens to be Jun Wu’s favorite.

A position that Xie Lian remembers being in all too well.

Which is why Shi Wudu’s actions confuse him even more.

He remembers the conversations he used to have with the emperor—the emphasis that was always placed on courtesy and humility.

Qualities that the Water Master has never reflected, except—

Except for in the moments when he’s directly opposed Jun Wu in public.

Taking up for Hua Cheng, someone he seemed to care very little for one way or the other. Stopping that play during the Mid Autumn Festival.

Those two instances stood out in stark contrast to everything else Shi Wudu has done in Xie Lian’s presence—and in both moments, while his actions were kind—

The Water Master didn’t speak compassionately, or express concern for those for whom he was interceding.

If anything—he seemed distressed in those moments, hiding any disturbance with a veneer of condescending arrogance.

Almost like he’s…afraid of something.

Or someone.

Could that…have been the Reverend of Empty Words?

But that doesn’t make any sense.

Even if Shi Wudu knew that the Reverend wasn’t destroyed—it had left them in peace for four centuries. How could he have known that it would return?

And why would that make him behave so erratically in the Heavens, the place where he—and Shi Qingxuan—would be the safest?

That would mean that something within the Heavens was frightening him—or, at the very least, occupying his thoughts enough to impair his judgment.

But what could do that to a god as powerful as the Water Master? And if something is threatening him…

That’s a problem.

Not only because of the Water Master’s strength, and the threat it could pose to all of them, but—

Because Xie Lian doesn’t actually believe that Shi Wudu is what he seems.

The selfish, arrogant person that everyone, even his peers seem to believe him to be.

There has to be someone else, underneath such a heavy shield of pride.

The older brother that Shi Qingxuan adores, always having such faith in. And after that display—

Xie Lian agrees with the assessment Ming Yi made during the Mid Autumn festival.

…He /does/ believe that General Ming Guang and the Water Master are lovers. And not in the casual sense that people typically associate with Pei—

That protective outrage he showed on Shi Wudu’s behalf on the turn of a dime…

From the outside looking in, the truth becomes difficult to deny.

Pei Ming isn’t simply the Water Master’s friend—or even a casual partner.

He’s in love with Shi Wudu.

And in Xie Lian’s experience, such trust and loyalty from those who love you—

It doesn’t come from nothing.

Then, something clicks into place for him—so suddenly, it actually makes him sit up in his chair, reaching out to grip the hand of it.

The thing about this situation that has been crawling underneath the surface of his thoughts, tugging at his attention.

The reason he felt so certain in his evaluations about the Water Master. The—

The reason he nearly intervened, when Shi Qingxuan lashed out the way she did. Because—

Xie Lian reaches up, grasping the chain around his neck tightly.

The Water Master…

…In eight centuries, he has only encountered two people who strongly reminded him of Hong’er.

The first being Hua Cheng, and the second…

Is Shi Wudu.

And that might seem like a bizarre comparison to make. A child born with nothing to the God of Wealth.

But it’s true.

Every comparison Xie Lian has made between Hua Cheng and Hong’er has been drawn between the way the two looked after him—similarities in small mannerisms and habits.

At first glance, the Ghost King felt so familiar, that when they met…

Xie Lian called out Hong-er’s name.

It had been so long since he felt the agonizing disappointment of calling out for him, and receiving no answer.

And even if there have been other similarities that he’s noticed since—there’s no point in asking again.

That was one of the things he learned from the Reverend.

There’s one thing he does fear, even how—and it’s feeling that pain, that loss, all over again.

And of course—he’s under no pretenses that there is any actual connection between Shi Wudu and Hong’er.

The two lived centuries apart—and even the possibility of reincarnation isn’t likely.

Xie Lian knows that people say you can’t recognize a soul’s past life. That everything about them becomes erased when they pass from one journey into the next.

He knows.

But if he came across Hong-er’s soul again, he would feel it.

Against all reason, against everything that he has ever been taught—Xie Lian believes that.

The connection he draws between the two stems from the way they treat those they care for.

With a level of loyalty that often seems almost absurd.

A love so fierce, that, in order to protect it—

It makes a man willing to become ruthless.

Xie Lian has no doubt that, had he lived long enough—Hong’er would have become immeasurably strong. Maybe even stronger than him.

All in the name of protecting Xie Lian.

Of keeping him safe.

And if someone had threatened that…

The prince has no doubt that Hong’er would have used any means at his disposal to protect him. And not only that, but—

Hong’er could behave pridefully himself.

Never with Xie Lian—he always treated the prince with the utmost level of humility and respect—but with others, certainly.

But that smugness—while it was sometimes the result of a playful nature, more often than not, it stemmed from one of two emotions:

Fear, or pain.

And while it’s obvious that the Water Master is afraid of something, it leaves Xie Lian to wonder—

Whatever that thing may be—is it hurting him, too?

And if that’s true, there aren’t many people who could—

Before Xie Lian can complete that thought, the step litter comes to a halt.

He almost asks what the issue is—but when he opens his eyes and sees the ocean of crimson spiritual energy around him, that answer becomes self evident.

The deja vu isn’t lost on him—remembering the last time he was stopped by a ghost, riding in a litter like this…if not slightly less grandiose.

But this time, when a hand reaches between the curtains—Xie Lian reaches with his own to take it without complaint.

“Gege,” the Ghost King sighs as he helps him down the steps, noticeably relieved. “You’re here.”

Xie Lian gives his hand a gentle squeeze, sticking close to Hua Cheng’s side as he leads him through the streets of Ghost City.

“I promised I would come as soon as I could, San Lang,” the prince assures him. “…How is Shuo?”

Just as he asks—he notices something else—

The street is relatively quiet.

Unusual, for a place like Ghost City.

“…It’s been a long time since a high level savage ghost was attacked like this,” Hua Cheng admits softly, leading Xie Lian towards Paradise Manor. “It’s left everyone on edge.”

Particularly when it wasn’t a ghost who had tangled with Heavenly Officials, like Xuan Ji.

Her decision to harass Pei was ill advised and clear cut—and allying herself with Qi Rong won her few friends in the ghost realm.

But Ren Song isn’t in the same league as her—and even if he was—

He’s under the direct protection of the most powerful ghost there is: Hua Cheng.

Which begs the question:

If Ren Song can be brought to such a state—how are any of them safe?

And what ghost could have done it?

When they step through the halls of Paradise Manor, it’s devoid of any servants, the quiet only broken by…

Swearing.

“MotherFUCKER that HURTS!”

Xie Lian exhales sharply, so relieved to hear that the ghost is awake, even if it’s only to curse at someone—and when he rushes into the bedroom, Shuo glances up, blinking blearily.

He’s sitting up on the edge of the bed, struggling against Yin Yu, who has been working to stitch up the wounds on his neck.

A sweat has broken out across his forehead, and his cheeks are unusually flushed for a ghost—and Xie Lian can hear how hoarse his voice is when he croaks—

“…Dianxia?”

For a moment, the prince freezes, visibly startled—but he quickly recovers from it, hurrying to Shuo’s side, reaching over to grasp his hand.

“I’m here,” Xie Lian murmurs, reaching up to press the back of his hand against Shuo’s forehead.

And when he feels the unusual heat there, he frowns—looking to Hua Cheng with concern.

The ghost king shrugs, arms crossed over his chest as he leans against the wall, watching them with a guarded expression.

“Whatever that thing was—it’s death qi is toxic.”

Xie Lian arches an eyebrow. He’s aware of the fact that such things are a danger to mortals, but…

“I had no idea ghosts could be sickened by that sort of thing…”

“Not usually,” Hua Cheng agrees, his eyes growing impossibly dark. “But not all ghosts are the same.”

A weaker ghost, for example, would not have been able to feed off of Shuo—much less leave him so much worse for wear. And Xie Lian seems to be rapidly coming to the same conclusion that Hua Cheng did, when he found him—

It allowed Shuo to live intentionally.

Otherwise, he would be…

“Did it find your ashes?” Hua Cheng questions—and his voice sounds calm, but there’s clearly tension underneath.

Xie Lian stiffens, startled—having had no idea that Shuo carried something as precious as his own ashes on his person at any point in time.

“…No,” Shuo mumbles, reaching up to rub his fingers over the choker sitting around his throat.

The emerald there still gleams in the candlelight, unharmed—and the ashes hidden behind it remain untouched.

He’s undressed from the waist up while Yin Yu finishes dressing the wound on the side of his throat—dangerously close to where the ashes sit.

“…Do you remember anything about the creature that attacked you?” Xie Lian questions gently, still squeezing his hand..

“Not really,” Shuo mutters, shaking his head. “Everything’s blurry, but…it was strong.”

The way he says the last word—with so much trepidation—

It startles Xie Lian.

Because…there are supposedly only two ghosts that are stronger than Shuo—and one of them would never hurt him

“…Was it Blackwater?” He questions quietly, not seeing the way Shuo and Hua Cheng look at one another—their expressions tense, but grim.

“No,” Shuo shakes his head, his voice coming out a little steadier now. “We aren’t enemies—and I would have recognized him.”

Xie Lian nods, unsurprised. After all—the Reverend of Empty Words and Blackwater being one in the same…

Well, the implications of that stretch too far to consider.

“Did you manage to get a clear look at his face?”

Xie Lian wouldn’t have been surprised if Shuo had said that he didn’t remember, or that he simply hadn’t recognized him, but—

“…He didn’t have one.”

The prince pauses, unsure of what to make of that.

“You mean…” he swallows hard, fighting the goosebumps rising on the back of his neck. “…He was wearing a mask?”

“No,” Shuo shakes his head slowly, his brow furrowed as he struggles to recall. “He just…had no face.”

Xie Lian grips his hand a little tighter as he listens.

“Where his eyes, nose, and mouth were supposed to be, there was just…nothing.” Shuo mutters, sniffing and rubbing his nose irritably. “I remember it running towards me on all four limbs…almost like a dog, but not really, more like…”

“…A spider?” Xie Lian prompts him quietly.

“Yeah,” Shuo mutters, a shiver wracking him. “Just like a spider.”

The prince can still remember it through his mind’s eye—that warped , smiling face, wearing the skin of his father as it crawled toward him like a beast, crooning those words over and over again;

Don’t be scared.

Did you have a nightmare?

Don’t…don’t be scared.

“I don’t know what happened after that,” Shuo concludes, glancing back up at Hua Cheng. “Next thing I knew, you were carrying me back to Ghost City.”

“…You need to rest,” the calamity mutters, pushing off of the wall as he walks over to Shuo’s bedside, pushing up his sleeve. “You might remember more when your strength comes back.”

He offers the ghost his wrist—which Shuo takes without hesitation.

Xie Lian may be a bit hypocritical for being startled by the sound of Shuo’s fangs piercing Hua Cheng’s skin—but the ghost king seems completely unbothered, watching as the boy drinks his blood.

“He doesn’t have enough spiritual power to purge the death Qi on his own right now,” he explains to Xie Lian as Shuo takes a few more hungry swallows. “This is the most efficient way to give him mine.”

Xie Lian supposes he’s engaged in the same behavior before with Rouye, even if he wasn’t explicitly giving spiritual power in that sense.

Of course—he’s also aware of Hua Cheng’s other ‘efficient’ means of sharing power, but…

That method wouldn’t be appropriate for being used on Shuo, given the nature of their relationship.

…But then again, if that’s true…why is it appropriate when it’s the two of them?

Xie Lian swallows hard, contemplating the implications behind that until Hua Cheng pulls his wrist back, his skin knitting back together instantly as he slides his sleeve back into place.

“…Come gege,” he mutters, walking out of the room. “We have other matters to discuss.”

The prince remains on the bed beside Shuo for a moment, his head tilted to the side.

It’s very clear—to him at least—that Hua Cheng /is/ worried about Shuo. After all—he can’t imagine the Ghost King offering his own blood up for just anyone, and…still.

He seems reluctant to let that show.

“…” Xie Lian gives Shuo’s hand one last squeeze, reaching up to pat his cheek gently. “I’m glad you’re alright,” he murmurs, “I was so worried when we found you like that.”

The demon hangs his head, ashamed.

“…I won’t fail again, your highness,” he mutters—sounding bitterly disappointed in himself.

“…” Xie Lian pats his cheek one last time, rising to his feet—and then, he does something that truly surprises the ghost.

He leans forward, carefully wrapping one arm around him in a gentle embrace, a—

A hug.

He’s hugging him.

Shuo is too stunned to reciprocate, stiff and awkward—but he makes no move to push Xie Lian away, and after a moment, he leans back on his own.

“…I don’t care how many times you fail,” Xie Lian mutters, shaking his head. “As long as you’re still here—that’s all that matters.”

The Ghost falls silent, his eyes wide—and Xie Lian takes that moment to follow after Hua Cheng, knowing that he ought to let Shuo rest.

Maybe it wasn’t his place to say such a thing—and more likely than not, he wasn’t the person Shuo wanted reassurance from in that moment—

But Xie Lian’s life would have been so different if just /one/ person had told him that—and he knew that Shuo needed to hear it.

When he joins Hua Cheng in the hallway, he quietly relays what happened between Shi Qingxuan and his brother after the ghost king left—and to Xie Lian’s surprise, he doesn’t ask any questions, listening quietly, his hands clasped behind his back.

“…Are you alright, San Lang?”

The Ghost King looks to him, standing a little bit straighter.

“What do you mean, your highness?”

Xie Lian shrugs, clasping his hands behind his back. “You just…you’ve seemed like there’s been something on your mind.”

A tension that only seems to weigh him down more and more.

And oh, if only he knew.

Hua Cheng almost bites back a smile, noticing that they’re walking with the same posture, side by side.

“…It’s nothing that his highness should concern himself with,” the calamity mutters, shaking his head.

In the end, the reason is simple:

If Hua Cheng had it his way—he would have absolutely no secrets from the prince, but…

He hasn’t been given any form of a choice.

Xie Lian falls silent—unaware of the nature of Hua Cheng’s predicament, but the Ghost King can tell—he doesn’t like having his worry brushed off.

But none of that prepares him for the next question to come out of the prince’s mouth.

“Why did neither of you ever tell me?”

“Never tell you what?”

“That Shuo was born in Xianle.”

Hua Cheng comes to a sudden halt in the middle of the hallway, his eyes widening.

“…For being as old as he is, I always thought his accent seemed a little modern,” Xie Lian explains, fiddling with the hem of his sleeve. “But I never gave it more thought than that…until just now.”

When Shuo called him ‘dianxia.’

He’s called him that before—plenty of times—it’s not the word itself that was strange.

It was that, clearly because he was disoriented—Shuo slipped back into his real accent.

And THAT inflection on ‘dianxia’ is one that Xie Lian has heard plenty of times before.

From Mu Qing.

He still says it that way, even now.

Meaning that Shuo was most likely raised as a commoner and in Xianle.

“…You’ll have to ask him,” Hua Cheng mutters. “I don’t know what his reasons for keeping it to himself were.”

But now—Xie Lian notices something else.

Hua Cheng—

He sounds frustrated.

More so than Xie Lian has ever heard him—even when the prince was ignoring his calls into their private communications array while he was fighting the Reverend.

“…San L—?”

Before he can even finish saying his name—Xie Lian’s been backed into the wall.

Not forcefully—even now, Hua Cheng wouldn’t dare—but with his hands on the wall above Xie Lian’s head, the prince is given little room for escape.

“What if I was, as well?”

Xie Lian stares up at him, his shackle gleaming faintly in the dim lighting of the hallway—confused.

Hua Cheng’s gaze never leaves Xie Lian’s face—

And if the prince could see him in that moment—the tortured, frustrated look in his eye—

He would know.

“…I don’t understand—”

“What if I was from Xianle?”

Xie Lian falls silent, speechless from shock, confusion, and—

That horrible feeling—one that’s only ever hurt him. A spark that he’s tried to smother so many times—because it burns like nothing else:

Hope.

“…Are you?”

There’s a long, heavy pause—as though Hua Cheng is wrestling with something within himself, and finally, he spits out—

“…No,” he mutters, taking a Large step back, wiping at the corner of his mouth—

The back of his hand comes away red.

“I was born in Xuli.”

And oh, he could almost scream—

The one thing he’s allowed to say about his mortal life that’s actually true—and it’s a detail that would be utterly meaningless to the prince.

And now, he can’t even bear to look at Xie Lian, who—

Who has never looked quite so crestfallen.

“…Were you trying to tease me just now?” He mumbles, still shrunken back against the wall, even if Hua Cheng is no longer crowding him in. “Because it wasn’t funny.”

“No!” The ghost king is vehement about that much, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t—”

“Then why would you say that?”

Hua Cheng wants to tell him.

He would give anything to tell him.

How frustrating it is, watching his god solve so many mysteries, big and small—but never the one standing right in front of him.

That the only thing he’s carried on for these last eight centuries has been the chance to tell him.

But he can’t.

Because of a curse that he’s no closer to breaking now than he was as a ghost fire.

And while he’s always had those emotions, at the moment…they feel unbearable.

“…It’s Mount Tonglu,” he mutters, wiping a hand down his face.

Xie Lian is quiet for a moment, trying to understand.

“…What about Mount Tonglu?”

“It’s opening,” Hua Cheng explains through clenched teeth. “Not now—but soon. And it…has an effect on calamities.”